Wayward Son
by Tempestt
Summary: The expiration date on Dean's soul is just about up, and Sam refuses to admit defeat. Together with the help of a kidnapped doctor, a lost spirit, and a disgruntled gaurdian angel the boys engage in a supernatural scavanger hunt to save Dean's life.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Supernatural. This will be my sole disclaimer for the entirety of this story.

A/N: Truth be told I am not a die-hard Supernatural fan. I only started watching the show in the middle of the second season due to the pitiful 2006 fall line up. Of course, I was not above noticing the attractiveness of the two brothers. wink I didn't become truly interested until I saw the episode Heart where Sam agreed to slay Madison, an unwilling werewolf. I thought the entire episode was tragic. I'm drawn to tragic. But I have to admit, it was the intro song, Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas, for the season finale that totally drew me in. I found it to be completely devastating. The fact that no matter how hard they fight, how much good they do in the world, there will never be peace for them until they are dead, and only then will they be able to rest their weary heads. That goes beyond tragic. Its heartrending.

_Carry on my wayward son  
There'll be peace when you are done  
Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more_

_---Kansas---_

Wayward Son

Prologue

The room was blindingly white. So intensely white that it seemed to have no walls, floor or ceiling. Only the sense that something was there, creating unseen boundaries. Otherwise the white expanse seemed to be endless, drifting off into nothingness. Perhaps there were no physical borders, only the psychological ones. Common sense that told you not to wonder too far in one direction.

An angel stood amidst the stark white in full biblical splendor. Snowy robes a shade darker than the room. White feathered wings edged in gold. Faceless, sexless, completely androgynous, yet powerful, determined, and more than a little pissed off.

"You cannot possibly allow this to happen." A beautiful voice, incomprehensible to humans, a ringing of a thousand silver bells. An angel's voice.

A crack of thunder, the trembling of the ground underfoot was the response. Not God. Not even angry angels spoke to God that way. No, upper management, maybe.

"Think of his years of service. Of all the good that has been done because of him."

More room shaking thunder.

"So he toyed with the Dark. It doesn't mean he is a lost cause. It is our responsibility to shepherd him to the Light. Besides if we lose him, then we will lose the other for sure."

A crack of lightning.

"Of course I believe in free will." The angel could no longer contain its absolute disgust from filtering out. "We cannot abandon him!"

Rolling thunder, cracking lightning, and a muted gong in the background for good measure.

"Well, I will not. He is my Charge. I am responsible for him. In life as well as in death."

A clap of thunder that sounded suspiciously like a snort of disbelief.

"Yes, I realize that he cheated. But cheating is such a miniscule sin." The angel was desperate, grasping at straws. Management spat back in a cacophony of weather related phenomenon. Undoubtedly, somewhere in middle America some poor farmer's crops were being pounded by the storm.

The angel sighed. "Yes, I know that this wasn't a history exam. Cheating death is a little extreme, but still, what was he supposed to do? It was his brother for Christ's sake."

Lightening crashed down, striking a few scant inches from the angel, nearly charring its white robe.

"Forgive me."

More thunder.

"Yes, I realize my place as Guardian. But if we lose him, then the other will turn for sure. Doesn't that risk outweigh the cost of disobeying the rules?

Lightening

"Yes, I realize that this wouldn't be a problem if he hadn't cheated."

A kick of wind.

"Yes, I understand that I am not allowed to interfere on the mortal plane."

A little splatter of rain

"Yes, I will abide by the rules."

The angel turned away, wings drooping until some of the feathers scraped dejectedly along the floor. As the angel exited the room through golden arches that hadn't been there before, a woman came scampering up. Dark hair, dark eyes. A new arrival. Someone who hadn't learned the consequences of eavesdropping.

"I'll help."

The angel raised a perfectly curved brow.

"Don't you have someplace to be?"

The woman looked down, digging her toe in the white floor. Was it tile or marble? Who knew? Maybe it was left over moon dust.

"Not really. I'm not to be allowed into heaven just yet and well…"

"You're not quiet bad enough for hell," finished the angel.

The woman's dark eyes darted up to meet the angel's serene expression.

"I never really did anything wrong. I mean, not consciously. It's not my fault I was infected, and I did take steps to make sure that I wouldn't hurt anyone else."

"Then why are you still in Limbo?"

The woman shrugged, looking back over her shoulder to a grouping of angels that surrounded the book of her life.

"They can't decide if asking him to kill me was technically suicide, even if I didn't pull the trigger."

"Ah." The angel didn't need to hear more, having been present during the poor girl's unfortunate demise. Had seen it all. Had been unaffected. Had been dutiful. Always dutiful.

"So as I understand it, I'm sorta on the outs. A free spirit." The woman smiled with a row of white, slightly carnivorous teeth.

The angel fought not to return the smile. Guardians weren't supposed to smile. They were supposed to advise from the sidelines, and if their Charges listened, then halleluiah. And if they didn't. Well, usually scrambled brains on the sidewalk.

It was sickening really, not having a voice. All that whispering, never being able to be heard. Never able to reach out and smack the Charge in the back of the head when they were getting ready to do something particularly stupid. Like sell their soul. Just sickening.

"So you think they are worthy?" asked the angel, sizing up the woman seriously for the first time.

"If anybody deserves to be saved, it's the Winchesters." The woman replied solemnly.

Then and there a compact was struck between an earthbound spirit and a guardian angel to save the two people who usually were the ones with the thankless job of doing the saving.


	2. Chapter One

Wayward Son

Chapter One

"Dammit, Sam. Don't die on me." Dean scowled, pressing some gauze down on the wound that was hemorrhaging blood like oil through a rain-rusted pan. It had slowed some, seeping from Sam's side and through the bandage. But it hadn't slowed enough, not nearly enough.

"Dean." Sam fisted his hand in the front of his brother's shirt, spitting out his name like a protective invocation.

Dean looked down at his brother, his gut wrenching so hard that he felt it in his knees. Sam was lying on a cheap hotel bed, his body twisted up with pain. His skin was sick and clammy with the loss of blood, his pores spilling out sweat. When Sammy said his name, he didn't even bother to open his mouth, just pried the word out between clenched teeth.

Dean swallowed hard. He swallowed all his fear, his inadequacy, even some of his rage, but it still slipped through, bubbling up to the surface to remind him of the unfairness of it all

"I did _not_ trade my soul so you could go toe up nine months later, Sammy," he spat, certain that if his brother refused to listen to his order not to die, then a threat with a dollop of guilt would do it.

Sam just moaned in response, and Dean's panic flared. He removed the gauze, peering down at the hole it had covered.

"The bullet is still in there, and you've lost way to much blood. I have to take you to the hospital, man."

Where threats had failed, the word hospital galvanized Sam.

"No! No you can't, Dean. They have to report a gunshot wound, and the Feds will be there before they even dig the slug out. We don't know anyone around here, Dean. We won't make it out of prison this time. We only have three months left. We can't risk it."

With that warning, Sam's strength seemed to slip away. He lost his grip on Dean's shirt, and he tried to curl in on himself to guard from the agony, but the wound flared white hot, paralyzing his body.

Dean thrust himself away from the bed, his hands scraping across his skull as if he could push all his problems out of his brain so he could think straight.

"This is why we don't hunt humans, Sam. With the Supernatural there is a pattern. A way things are done. Salt and burn bones to banish spirits. Silver for werewolves. There's a rhythm to it, like Metallica."

Sam groaned behind him, but Dean ignored it.

"But humans, man. They are so sick and twisted. You can never tell what they are thinking. Way too unpredictable. Like that Alternative crap that's always on the radio nowadays. We should have turned around and left the minute we realized that he wasn't under a demon's influence."

"We couldn't leave without stopping him, Dean. He was ritually sacrificing children. He had to be stopped." Sam's voice was a whisper, draining away just like his life's blood.

Dean rummaged through his bag, pulling out what little supplies he had. Without hesitation he uncapped a bottle of rubbing alcohol, pouring it on the wound, recognizing Sam's screams only enough to cover his mouth with his hand so he wouldn't alert their neighbors that some shaky shit was going down in their room.

"What we should have done was called the cops and then high-tailed it out of town," Dean growled, while fixing a field dressing over the wound.

"A demon would have showed eventually. You can't spill that much innocent blood without something getting a whiff." Those were Sam's last words before passing out, leaving Dean to stand over him helplessly.

He knew what he should do. He should stop being such a pussy boy and pick up the phone to dial 911. Only Sammy's words stopped him. He couldn't stand the idea of his brother spending the rest of his life never bending over in the shower, because of crimes that he hadn't even committed. Crimes that were Dean's. Crimes that wouldn't matter in three months when his soul got yanked by the bitch queen and sent south.

He hated the fact that he was thinking about making that call and then hitting the road with the fantasy that he could break Sam out. 'Cause that's what it was. A fantasy. Never mind the near mind-numbing, gut-clenching, knee-shaking fear that thought ensued. Just thinking about being separated from Sammy again made his stomach rot.

Dean set his jaw, the dim motel lamplight reflecting raw fury and pain in his eyes. He swept up his green duffel, spilling out everything onto his bed to make room inside. He shoved his .45 into its holster under his brown, well-worn, leather jacket and palmed the Impala's keys. He paused at the door, looking grimily back at his brother.

"I'll be back, Sammy. I promise. Don't you die on me. I've got nothing left to barter with if you do."

He slammed the door on the way out, locking it tight so no one could sneak in. He scanned the dark lit parking lot, finding what he was looking for at the far end. He ran up to the phone booth, nearly growling when he saw that it was occupied by a homeless man.

"Dude, I need to use the phone." Dean shouted, before he could check himself. He did not want to be remembered as a nut job. It was bad enough that he hadn't washed before leaving the room. If anyone looked close enough they'd realize that it wasn't dirt that stained his clothes and hands.

The old man, dressed in dirt gray clothes, from his ratty jacket to oversized pants, shuffled around inside the booth. He peered up at Dean from under shaggy brows, his eyes the same color as his clothes.

"Sure, thing there, Sonny. Let me just get my old bones together." The man moved how Dean imaged stone would if it was coming to life. Molasses slow and somewhat rickety, the simple action of standing almost forgotten.

Dean wiped his hand across his brow, wondering how deep his soul would descend into The Black if he dragged the old man out and dumped him on the ground. Sammy could be dying right that second, and this drunk couldn't find his feet if they kicked him in his own ass.

"Look, do you know where there is a hospital or clinic nearby."

"Sure, sure. There's the free clinic down the street. Isn't open now, not twenty-four hours. But the doc there is real nice. Yes sir, a real angel she is. Doc Green. As pretty as pie on a plate."

Dean about-faced, hearing all that he needed from the man. He raced to the Impala, briefly acknowledging the homeless man as he leaned out of the booth to shout at him.

"Just turn right at the light, Sonny. Can't miss it. Surely not. It's like a beacon from heaven."

Dean found the clinic easily. A beacon from heaven like the old man had said. It seemed to be lit up from the outside in, and he could almost hear the angels singing. The parking lot was dark, and the doors were locked, but such things were trivial to him as he checked his watch. He had already been away from Sam for five minutes, and it felt like a life time.

He circled around back finding a small electrical box. He figured the place was hard wired with an alarm, but he knew from experience that rent-a- pigs were slow to put down their donuts for a downed circuit rather than for a tripped line. He figured that once he blew the fuse he would have about ten minutes to get the supplies he needed and double-time it out.

He shorted the fuse, found a small window that he jimmied open and slithered in as quick and silent as any professional burglar. He hurried down the hall, his eyes already adjusting to the dim light. In front of him he heard a rustle of movement before a form appeared out of the shadows. Instinctively he pulled his flashlight and gun, pointing both at the shadow.

Delilah raised her arm to cover her eyes as she was caught in a blinding light. She had been in her office, tackling the mound of paperwork on her desk that was threatening to spill over onto the floor when her small lamp went out. It didn't take her long for her to figure out that the rest of the lights in the building were out as well. She was slowly making her way to the fuse box, figuring she was the only one left in the clinic, but obviously she was wrong. The cleaning crew must have snuck in to swab the toilets while she was concentrating on her work.

The light dropped away a little, and her eyes adjusted enough for her to see. She gasped in shock, then blinked, certain that her eyes were playing tricks on her, but they weren't. It was a gun. Held by a man. A man whose clothes and hands she was pretty sure weren't stained with dirt.

"Are you a doctor?" The man asked, his voice guttural, almost desperate. A junkie looking to mainline some prescription meds, she thought. She knew what kind of neighborhood she worked in. She saw junkies and crack whores all day long, and she treated them with respect due to them as human beings. Because that was what she had to do, because that's what kept them coming back. And she kept helping them. That was her penitence in life.

When she didn't answer right away the nose of the gun lifted, a silent prodding for her to get her head out of the clouds and focus on the moment. She nodded, unable to find her voice just yet.

Dean's eyes narrowed. The woman in front of him didn't look like any doctor he had ever seen. She could have just stepped out of his own personal candy striper fantasy that he had been having since he was fourteen and was in the hospital for a broken arm.

Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled up into a messy knot on the top of her head. He was pretty sure that when she left the house that morning, it had been neat and tidy, but a long day of work had loosened some tendrils so that they flowed down to frame her heart-shaped face. Her whiskey-colored eyes were impossibly large, and he knew that had a lot to do with the pistol he had pointed in her direction. People tended to get doe-eyed around weapons, especially the ones that went boom.

"I'm going to need some supplies, doc."

She nodded again, and he wondered what her voice sounded like. Probably nasally or bitch-ass bossy. Something to offset her beauty. After all, she was a doctor, and in his experience they were all dicks.

"Penicillin, antiseptic, gauze, and blood."

Delilah's brow winged up. That was not the grocery list she was expecting. As a matter of fact, the longer she stared at the man in front of her, the more she realized that he was far from some cracked-out junkie. He stood steadily, determination stamped metal-hard on his handsome features. There was something about him. A raw intensity that was frightening. He wasn't crazy though. Not in the traditional sense. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He wagged his gun at her, and she got the message. _Lead on, doc._ Realizing that there was absolutely no reason to argue, she motioned him to follow her down the hall. She stopped at the supply room, using her key to unlock it so he could enter. He pushed her inside first, putting her up against the far wall so he could keep her in sight.

He opened a green duffel that he had slung over his shoulder, and began dumping supplies into the bag. Bandages, syringes, medicine. Everything that he would need to treat a wound. And something told her that he had treated a lot of wounds in his time. There was a warrior-esque vibe about him. He was someone who was intimate with pain, who was on a handshake, howdy-do basis with it.

He moved over to the locked cabinet where the quality meds were kept. His eyes shot over to her, hard and cold, all business.

"Open it or I will." The words were clipped, spat out between clenched teeth. He checked his watch and his square jaw hardened. He was on a clock. Of that she was sure.

She sidled up next to him, trying her best not to brush against him. She unlocked the cabinet without protest, watching unsurprisingly when he dumped morphine into his bag. It had a high street value, undoubtedly he would sell what he didn't use.

"You know, we have an alarm." She had no idea what possessed her to say that. If she was warning him that the cops would be there any minute and he should get out while he still could or if she was reminding him that it would be a bad idea to hurt her, she wasn't sure. Although, other than point a gun at her, he hadn't as much as looked her up and down.

"I disabled it." He didn't even bother to look at her as he rummaged through the medicine cabinet, dismissing her as any sort of a threat. Seeing his inattention, she tried to slide away, only to freeze when she heard the gun cock. He still wasn't looking at her, but she got the message. He may not see her, but he was still aware of her every move.

"Blood."

She blinked, and then swallowed. Never in a million years did she think someone would break in looking for blood. Maybe he _was_ crazy. One of those cold, calculating, serial killer types that liked to do awful things with people's blood. Some children had gone missing around the county of late, and she wondered if he had anything to do with it. She must have been contemplating too long because his mouth tightened into a straight line that made her shiver.

"Doc, I don't have a lot of time. Show me where you keep your blood supply."

"Yes, of course. Follow me."

Dean sighed, disappointed. Her voice wasn't nasally or strident. It was soft and soothing. Downright pleasant. If Sam wasn't lying in a pool of his own blood right now, Dean would have turned on the old Winchester charm. That would have had her handing over the meds, the blood, and her phone number, but he didn't have time to mess around. Besides, since the moment she told him she was a doctor, he knew what he was going to have to do. It was high time he added a real charge to the list of crimes slated against him.

They entered a cool room and Delilah led him over to a large refrigerator. She unlocked the door, noticing that the man was stuffing several yards of tubing in his bag along with needles.

"Any particular type?"

"B negative."

Delilah faltered. _Why oh why couldn't he ask for something less rare?_

"I only, uh, have about a unit."

The man pinned her to the spot with hard green eyes, his full mouth pulled down into a frown. Suddenly she found it hard to breathe, like the weight of his eyes were centered on her chest and was pushing all the air from her lungs. Then just as suddenly the weight was gone as he swung his gaze away from her.

"Fine. Load it into a cooler. Where are your surgical tools?"

She winced at his question, but did as he bid, afraid that he would glare at her again.

"We don't have surgical tools. We are a free clinic."

"But you have scalpels for lancing boils, forceps, and stuff like that, right?" He was prowling around the room, looking through drawers for anything useful.

"They are kept in that cabinet." She pointed across the room, watching briefly as he riffled through the drawers, before remembering her chore of packing the blood.

"O negative can be given to someone with B negative blood, right?"

He had come up behind her so quietly, that she hadn't heard him. She nearly dropped the cooler full of blood, but he reached out and rescued it from her numb fingers. Her heart started to pound, and she had to fight down the panic.

"Well, yes, it can be."

"Do you have any?"

Again she swallowed. "A unit or two. Like I said. We are a free clinic. We don't have very much funding."

He didn't reply, just looked away, and readjusted his duffel so it sat securely on his shoulder. He held the handle of the cooler in a white-knuckled grip that belied his outward calmness as he glanced around the room, looking for anything he missed.

"Get it."

She obeyed, packing it in the cooler while he held it steady.

"So did you need anything else?" she asked shakily. More than ready for him to leave.

His green eyes returned to her, and this time they weren't so hard. In fact, they were almost apologetic.

"'Fraid so, doc. I'm going to need you to come with me."

Delilah's breath was expelled from her body in a shuddering gasp. She hadn't been expecting this. She felt like kicking herself. He was obviously a homicidal manic who knew that he didn't have enough time to torture and kill her in the clinic and wanted to take her elsewhere to finish up the job. He must have seen the stark terror in her eyes, because his brow winged up in surprise.

"It's not what you think." For the first time, his voice wasn't full of rough edges and sharp impatience. It was brandy-smooth and horse-whisperer calm. If she had been a skittish filly she would have meandered her way over to him and eaten out the of the palm of his hand just by his tone alone. Her eyes widened and she stepped back.

"My brother, Sam, is hurt pretty bad, Doc. I need you to come take a look at him."

"If he's hurt so badly, then perhaps you should take him to the hospital."

Something flickered in the back of his green eyes, and she knew that she had hit a nerve. The feeling she had earlier, the one she couldn't pin down came to the forefront of her mind. His intensity, his warrior-like stance. He was a man who knew how to kill, and kill well. She shuddered, bone deep and cold.

"Can't."

Delilah felt her rebellious streak rise up, and before she could strangle it down, it slipped out her mouth. "Can't or won't."

His mouth thinned and she felt her skin tighten across her bones.

"I'm not going to argue with you." He raised his gun, pointing it at her, his threat clear.

"Yes, well it does look like you have the winning hand."

"I've found that a .45 trumps aces every time."

"I'm sure." At his prodding she exited the room, making her way towards the front door. Silently she unlocked it, allowing them both out before relocking it. He led her out to the darkest part of the parking lot where he left his car. His vehicle was a sleek, liquid-black-metal monster, perfectly suited to its master.

He herded her around to the driver's side, opening the door for her so she had to slide along the black vinyl seat to the other side. Briefly she thought about flinging open the door and making a run for it, but the man's hard green eyes dissuaded her.

He set the key into the ignition, turning it, and the car roared to life. With one hand he steered them out onto the street, his eyes flickering between her and the road. He gunned the gas and the vehicle leapt forward, pinning her back into her seat. Hurriedly she buckled the lap belt around her hips.

"Don't try anything stupid."

She glanced over, seeing that he still had the gun pointed at her while driving. Her eyes darted up to the lit speedometer, her gut clenching.

"Oh, I won't. I perhaps know more about the statistics of us surviving a crash at ninety miles an hour, than you do. As a matter of fact, I promise to be a good little doctor if you just put your other hand on the wheel."

The man's mouth twitched and just for a moment she thought he was going to smile. Beneath the cold veneer of a predator, she saw another face, one that wasn't so desperate.

"Honey, I've done a lot more than point a gun with one hand while doing ninety in this baby." His tone was slightly dirty, and she was momentarily disconcerted. She didn't know if she was supposed to be amused or be relieved. She was neither.

Before she could digest the fact that she was being kidnapped they were pulling into a dive motel parking lot. He parked them in the back, hustling her out while swinging his bag up on his shoulder.

"Grab the blood."

She nodded, daring to glare at him. He probably wanted his other hand free so he could grab her by the hair once they got inside. _Dirty pervert_. She wasn't buying his hurt brother story for a second. While he was unlocking the hotel door, she looked covertly around, wondering if she screamed bloody murder if someone would come running. Somehow she doubted it. Women probably screamed all the time around there. She started to slide away, but he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her inside.

Once in the room, all thoughts of escape, lies, and murdering perverts were swept from her mind. On the bed was a young man, a boy really, a very tall boy, passed out cold. She could see why by the pool of blood beneath him, so much that the mattress couldn't soak up anymore and it sat up on the sheets, shiny and new like red satin.

"Sam!" When the man got no response, he dropped his bag on a nearby bed, which she noticed held two sawed off shotguns, some books, and a heap of clothes, and leaned down to pat his brother on the cheek. "Sammy!" he shouted.

"He's out from blood loss."

The scared woman inside her receded, and her physician's training came to the forefront. Before she had become a volunteer doctor at the clinic, she had been a top surgeon. Spoiled, rich and talented. But all that had been before…_the accident_. Now she made amends at the clinic, while ignoring her mother's imperial voice on her machine once a week, ordering her back to her Manhattan loft.

She circled around the bed, pushing the man out of the way, so she could reach his brother. With a great deal of effort, she turned him onto his side so she could see the extent of his wounds. He had a number of superficial scratches across his arms and chest, but it was the bullet wound in his side that was causing the most damage.

She could feel the man moving around behind her, but she ignored him, concentrating on her patient instead. She removed the bandage that had been hastily tapped to his side, silently impressed by the efficiency of the dressing.

"Nice work."

There was no reply, but more light flooded the room as he took off the lamp shade by the bed. He cleared everything off the nightstand, laying down a clean towel and lining out all of her tools. He did it all silently, as if he knew exactly what she would need and when.

"I'll need hot water," she ordered while pulling the light closer so she could see into the wound. There was no exit hole in his back so she knew the bullet was still lodge in there, hopefully between his ribs and not in his lung. His breathing didn't seem labored, but she would know if the lung was perforated once she pulled the bullet out. If the wound started to bubble with blood, all would be lost. It would take only seconds for the lung to collapse.

"I'm running it through the coffee pot right now to heat it up." His efficiency surprised her, but it just reiterated what she already figured. This man knew a lot about wounds.

Once her tools were laid out, he moved to the other side of the bed, bringing a coat rack with him. He began to set up an IV drip with the tubing and needles he brought.

"Do you want the antibiotics or blood first?"

"Blood," she replied absently, using clamps sterilized in alcohol to open the wound. She glanced up at the unconscious man, hoping to God he would stay that way through the procedure. She didn't bring any anesthesia, and the pain, if he woke up, would be intense.

She waited until the man inserted the IV into the patient's arm, watching as he taped it down before releasing the blood into his brother's vein. Something he also had done before.

With everything in place all that was left was for her to dig the bullet out. Armed with gauze to wipe away the blood and forceps, she plunged into his wound, feeling for the bullet. The man jerked out of unconsciousness, his mouth wrenched wide into a scream.

"Dean!" The man was at his side instantly, holding him down so she could work.

"I'm here, Sammy. I know this fucking sucks, but its gotta be done. Just a little bit longer and then I'll give you a sweet morphine cocktail. Okay, little bro?"

"Aw, fuck, Dean. It hurts."

Dean hushed him, smoothing his hair back from his face. She ignored them both, feeling a spurt of triumph when she felt the bullet under her hand. Gently she clamped onto it, relieved that it was wedged between his ribs like she hoped. With a painful tug, it came free, and she lifted the bullet out of the wound, examining it in the light. Mercifully it was undamaged, which meant she didn't have to go poking around looking for fragments. Unfortunately his ribs were cracked, but she wouldn't be able to bind them until his wound drained and healing. When he woke again, he would be in a great deal of agony, especially if he tried to move.

Sam was passed out cold from the pain, but that didn't stop Dean from giving him the morphine that he promised. Delilah cleaned his wound and bandaged it, doing the same with his other minor scratches. When she was done she checked his pulse, frowning at how sluggish it was.

"He needs more blood."

They looked at the IV that was already nearly through the third bag.

"I know," Dean replied solemnly, and suddenly she could see the weight he was carrying on his shoulders. A part of her wanted to feel sorry for him, but mostly she was angry. If he loved his brother he would have taken him to a hospital, instead of allowing him to be butchered on a filthy, cum-stained bed in a slummy downtown motel room. More than likely they were bank robbers or drug runners. Some sort of awful criminals. The man was obviously more interested in saving his own ass from the cops than saving his brother. It made her sick.

Dean circled around to the other bed, Delilah watching him warily. He cleared it off and pulled back the covers like he was ready to call it a night, leaving his brother to bleed to death. She was outraged.

"You can't just leave him like this. If he doesn't get blood he will die. You need to take him to a hospital. He needs serious medical attention."

"Don't you think I know that?" he shouted at her from across the bed, and for the first time she saw his cold façade crack. Raw pain ravaged his face, and his green eyes glittered with unshed tears.

"It should have been me out there tonight, not him. He thinks that it's his turn to save me. That if he keeps me alive long enough he can save my soul. He took that bullet for me, and its killing me! It is my job to keep him safe. It is my job to protect, Sammy!"

She didn't understand a lot of what he was saying, but she heard his agony. They had a tight bond that she couldn't even dream of understanding being an only child. She had no comprehension of the strength of their tie, but it only reinforced her certainty that Sam should be in a hospital not dying in some cheap motel.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he was upon her before she could scream. In seconds he had her pinned down and her hands cuffed to the bed. For good measure he slapped some duck tape over her mouth, not wanting her to scream the motel down around their ears.

"I'm not going to let my baby brother die again."

With that, he turned away from her, sweeping a frustrated hand through his spiky hair. He circled around to the other bed, pulling up a padded chair next to the IV. The last of the blood had drained out of the bag, but Sam still looked sickly white with blood loss.

Wordlessly Dean pulled out the tubing from the bag, attaching a needle to the end. Realizing what he was about to do, Delilah moaned from behind her gag, trying to get his attention. He could very well kill his own brother if his blood wasn't compatible.

"Don't worry, I have O negative blood," he told her without looking up. "I was created to be his savior," he muttered so quietly that she thought she must have misheard him. Her struggles stilled and she watched as his blood streamed up the tube and into Sam, giving his brother what he so greatly needed, while draining himself dry.

Her eyes flickered back to Dean worriedly. What he was doing was incredibly dangerous. Especially now that she was tied up and unable to help. If he gave too much blood to his brother and lost consciousness, he could die in that torn-up chair. A deathly vigil that he would never wake up from.


	3. Chapter Two

Wayward Son

Chapter Two

He was on the ceiling, blood raining down from his side and onto his sleeping brother. He tried to open his mouth, to scream and warn Dean, but only hot, rasping air escaped his throat. Then the burning began. It started at his side, a warming sensation that intensified until it engulfed his entire body in flame. White hot agony seared through him, but he couldn't move, couldn't curl up into a ball to protect himself. Instead he was pinned to the ceiling, silent screams caught in his throat as he looked down at his motionless brother.

Orange flames danced in front of his eyes, blocking out everything except for the fires of hell. The yellow-eyed demon laughed in his ear, whispering to him about his mother---about pretty, little Jess. Everything was taken from him. His mother, his lover, his father and his brother. All gone, leaving him achingly alone. Alone to face the Dark. The yellow-eyed demon laughed again, and the flames licked his body, searing his flesh to the bone.

Then in a breath the flames were gone, and there was only darkness. Not evil darkness, but soothing, comforting darkness. A body moved against him, sliding along his naked spine. A woman, full breasts and narrow waist. The feel of her was familiar, but not memorized. Not Jess, someone else. Someone he knew.

Slender arms wrapped around him, holding him in a comforting embrace. Soft kisses were placed along the shell of his ear, soothing words whispered. The pain in his body was gone. His side no longer burned, and the constant headache behind his eyes dissolved. All that was left was a pleasant floating sensation of satisfaction. The kind that only comes after a night of raw passion and mindless sex.

He rolled over, prying his eyes open. Dark hair, dark eyes, Madison. Sweet, vulnerable, dead Madison. Murdered by his own hand, with his own gun. Sobs well up in his throat, and this time they come, lisping out softly between his lips at first, before degenerating into full blown sobs. Guilt racked him, burning him as deeply as the hell fire.

She whispers to him, soothing him, brushing the hair from his face. She holds him close, pressing his wet face into the hollow of her throat. He can smell her, the scent of jasmine that he remembered. The softness of her skin, the sound of her sighs. His body shakes, and apologies stream out with his sobs.

"No, Sam. Don't. It had to be done. Killing people would have eventually destroyed me. There was no other way. You saved me. You saved me from the guilt. From the ghosts of my victims."

She lifts his head, pressing soft kisses against his lips. He leans into her, needing her touch, needing her absolution. A glow filters into the room, banishing the comforting darkness, leaving the bed in a pool of soft, satin light. Beyond the edge the darkness waits, but it is menacing, a creature waiting to strike. He blinks, lifting his head, looking beyond the bed to a shelf.

An orb sits, small, slight, delicately fragile, made of glass. Inside light shifts and sways, dancing to an unheard rhythm. Gold and white, enrapturing, beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

"What is that?" he whispers, awestruck

"Dean's soul."

He wrenches his gaze away to look at Madison. Her dark eyes are serious, her rosy mouth pulled into a straight line.

"His soul?" He looks back at the orb, staring at it hard. Madison smoothes her small hand along his cheek, reminding him that she is there.

"It is important that you remember this, Sam."

He glances back at her, blue-green eyes full of confusion. "Why?"

"Because you are having a premonition."

His brow wrinkles, and he puts an experimental hand to his head, testing for something that should be there.

"If that was true, there would be pain."

Madison smiles at him, her perfect bow-shaped mouth curving just how he remembered it.

"No pain this time. Not when I am here. I will protect you, Sam. Like you protected me."

A growl resounds in the darkness. Evil and deadly. From the shadows comes something even darker. It appears on the other side of the orb, red eyes, black fur, a Hell Hound, ready to collect.

"No!" he shouts, trying to jump up from the bed, but the silk sheets tangles his legs. Madison wraps her arms around him, holding him down next to her.

"No, Sam. It is just a dream. You must let it be what it is. You must see."

"No, I won't let them take Dean's soul. I won't let him die." He fights against her, but she is strong, and he is weak. Helpless he watches as the giant dog opens its mouth, row after row of sharp, jagged, shark teeth lining its jaws. A black tongue swirls out, wrapping around the glowing orb and pulling it down into the dark hole of its maw, swallowing it, extinguishing the light.

He is left in darkness again, but there is no comfort, only dread and despair. The soft warmth of Madison is gone, and there is only coldness. He reaches out, searching for her, for Dean, but is left with nothing.

"No!" he cries, feeling only the burn of emptiness.

Dean awoke up to a gawd-awful thumping. At first he thought it was his head. It wouldn't be the first time that he woke up with a hangover, especially after a hunt. Eyes still closed, he rubbed his head, trying to dispel whatever it was. Another loud thump vibrated around him, and he finally realized that it was coming from outside his head not inside. He opened his eyes, blinking as his memories from the night before came rushing back.

He shot up from his chair, only to fall back into it dizzily. While the thumping was coming from outside his head, there was a pounding that was entirely inside his skull. A jackhammer that was trying to bash its way out. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen, and his body had an all over aching feeling that usually only came from a sound ass whooping from some demon or another.

Slowly he opened his eyes again, focusing at what was in front of him. The first thing he saw was the doctor curled up against the headboard where he had handcuffed her, her legs swinging out to kick the nightstand against the wall, making enough of a racket to wake the dead, and more than likely pissing off the neighbors to boot.

_Well that had to stop, right now_.

He shot up from his chair again, ready this time for the dizziness that was sure to come, and remembering why. He had given Sam as much blood as he dared, before pulling out the IV. He had then hooked up the antibiotics before falling into drained unconsciousness in his chair.

As soon as he stood, the doc stopped kicking the nightstand, and started gesturing to Sam. She was muttering behind her gag, spitting out what he was sure was obscenities, and he mentally congratulated himself on muzzling her. The last thing he was ready for this morning was listening to her rant on about what a cold-hearted bastard he was.

His eyes drifted to Sam, concern wrinkling his normally smooth brow. His brother was moving restlessly on top of the bed, a dark red flush staining his cheeks. Fever. Dean felt the panic well up inside of him. Instantly he checked the antibiotics that he had strung up the night before, seeing that the bag was empty.

He reached for another bag, replacing the empty one, while ignoring the doctor's choked growls. Once that was done, he glanced over at her, his hard eyes clearly communicating a very annoyed, _what?_

She gestured back, her whiskey eyes shooting fire. Dean sighed with resignation as he stepped over to her bed.

"Do you promise not to scream?"

She nodded quickly, too quickly, and Dean's eyes narrowed.

"I mean it, doc. I don't hit women, but if you make me I will cold cock you." His words were so clipped and cold that he almost believed it himself. Rule number one in the Winchester handbook: bluff. Rule number two: if that doesn't work, then bluff again. And if an old Indian calls you a liar for the third time, then you just shut the hell up.

Her eyes flickered warily, and she nodded again. Gently he removed the tape, girding himself for her verbal assault. Surprisingly she didn't spew the venom that he could see lurking in her eyes, instead she jerked on her cuffs, reminding him that she was still bound.

"He has an infection. Uncuff me so I can attend his wound." _You prick_ wasn't spoken, but it was definitely implied by her tone. He fought back the urge to smile. Usually by the time a woman was this hell-bent mad at him, he had already introduced her to the luxury of his back seat and was on his way out of town. Too bad they had skipped the back seat.

Concern for Sam overrode his natural flirtatious instincts, and without a word he released her, keeping a tight eye on her in case she made a run for it. She didn't, instead she leapt off the bed and to Sam's side. Gently she lifted the bandage to look at the wound.

It was red and swollen around the edges, and she could see where puss was starting to drain. He had a low grade infection, and if they weren't careful it could degenerate into something much worse. She cleaned and dressed the wound once more, and checked the IV drip to make sure that the penicillin was flowing smoothly.

Watching her from the corner of his eye Dean riffled through Sam's duffel. He had never woken up so hungry in his life, and he was pretty sure that Sam would have one of his crap-awful power bars stashed in his bag somewhere. Victoriously he pulled the squashed and broken bar from the depths of Sam's dirty shorts, uncaring at the moment what it may have touched. He figured the foil wrapper had kept it safe enough from his brother's cooties.

"We have to move him to the other bed. He can't lie in a pool of his own blood, like this."

Dean nodded, agreeing with her. Seeing Sammy, laying in that congealed mess was making him queasy. Ignoring his rebellious stomach, he inhaled the bar in two bites, trying his hardest not to actually taste it. He then pulled down the covers to the bed she had slept in, smoothing the sheets for his brother. She undid the IV and together, her at Sam's feet, and Dean at his head, swung him gently over to the other bed.

As soon as it was done, she reinserted the IV and pulled the covers up over him while Dean stripped the other bed down to the bare mattress, balling up the sheets and throwing them into the corner. A huge crimson smear stained the mattress reminding Dean of his brother's mortality. Sickened, he was getting ready to flip the mattress when a knock sounded at the door.

Instantly he was across the room, his hand over the doctor's mouth, her body pressed tightly into his. She struggled with him, but she was too slight to do any real damage. Briefly the thought that maybe he should teach her how to protect herself in the future before they parted ways, drifted through his mind, but he quickly shook it off. He wrestled her down onto the bed next to his brother, trying to be as gentle as possible if not for her sake then for Sam's.

He used the duck tape from the night before to cover her mouth. It wasn't as secure the second time around, and he hoped to God that it would hold long enough for him to bluff his way out of his newest butt-fuck. He cuffed her to the bed, and was up with his .45 in hand.

"Don't make a sound. If you do then I'll have to shoot whoever is at the door, and you don't want me to do that, do you, doc? You don't want their death on your conscious, do ya?"

Her whiskey-colored eyes widened, and he could feel the sinking, _I'm an asshole_ sensation of guilt in his gut. He really was going to end up in that special hell, if he kept up terrorizing her like he was. She nodded her eyes downcast and for a moment he felt dejected.

The knocking had turned into irate pounding by now, and Dean's entire body tensed as he hurried over to the door. Not hearing the tell tale crackle of the police radio reassured him, but not by much. Slowly he cracked open the door, revealing the surly motel manager. Fat and greasy, he looked like a burger that had sat in the sun for a week. He wore what was supposed to be a white wife beater, but the color had mottled into a sick, mustard yellow from sweat and nicotine. A cigarette was clamped firmly in between greenish teeth, and the man's unshaven jowls quivered indignantly as he glared at Dean.

Dean had seen this look before. It was usually directed at him before he had to high-tail it out of town.

"Neighbors say that you are banging up my room real good," the manager snarled.

Dean schooled his face into a mask of nonchalance, before allowing a small smirk to curl on his lip. "Just pleasing my ol' lady." His eyelid dropped down into a sly wink that was more than a little dirty.

Somehow the man managed to smirk and glare at the same time.

"I won't have you running off my business 'cause you can't plow her right."

Behind him the doc choked, and he could practically feel the daggers slamming into his back. Quickly he glanced behind him, scowling when he caught her pulling her feet up to kick the nightstand. He waved his gun at her, giving her the dirtiest, I-will-fuck-you-up, look in his repertoire. With that one glare he was able to convey to her that if she alerted the manager to her presence then someone was going to have to die. It was either going to be her or the manager, either way it was bad news for her all around. The pure intensity in his eyes stopped her cold, and she curled up on the bed, thoroughly chastised.

As he turned to glare at her, he had pushed the door nearly closed, but it was cracked enough for the manager to try and peek inside. Dean glared at him in warning, his hazel eyes deepening to green. The man backed up a step, and his jowls quivered again, and Dean instantly recognized it as a tell. His poker hand just got folded.

"Just be quiet in there." Without another word the man hurried away, leaving Dean to stare after him.

Quietly he closed the door, turning back to see the blood-soaked mattress. It would have been clearly visible through the crack in the door. Dean wanted to kick himself, but instead of wasting time berating himself for his fuck-up, he swept through the room in a whirlwind of action, packing up weapons and supplies as if it was second nature.

Ignoring the woman he ran outside, dumping most of their stuff into the trunk of the Impala and leaving the backseat free. By the time he reentered the room she had managed to scrape the old tape away from her mouth with the back of her arm.

"What are you doing?"

"The manager is on to us. He's probably calling five-o right now."

"Well, you should let him. You can't move Sam in his condition. He needs to go to the hospital. If his infection gets worse he could die."

Dean dropped the armful of clothes that he had been carrying, crossing the room to her in a fury. She was perched next to Sam, her legs drawn up to her body protectively. When she saw him coming she cowered down, expecting him to finally beat her into submission.

Dean saw her flinch, and he felt his intense self-disgust coil around in the bottom of his stomach. He couldn't count how many baddies he had killed, but not once had he so much as raised a hand to an innocent. However in less than twenty-four hours he had terrorized her nearly beyond endurance. He should let her go. Just free her right then and there, and ignore the consequences. But he couldn't. Sam needed her. And he needed Sam.

In a fit of frustration, he plucked up the lamp from the nightstand, hurling it across the room so it shattered against the far wall. She whimpered, curling in on herself tighter, but Sam remained deathly still, reminding Dean how high the stakes were. He sunk down onto the neighboring bed, careful to avoid the crimson stain of blood.

"Look, doc." He paused, brushing his hands through his spiked hair, sighing deeply. Concentrating, he drained some of the tension out of body, trying to soften his scowl, looking for that Winchester charm that had worked for him so well up until now.

"What's your name?" he asked, trying to look as least threatening as possible. _Where was Sam when he needed him?_ He would have flashed her his little boy lost smile that would have had her eating out of his hand in no time.

At first she didn't answer, but he just kept staring at her with hazel eyes. She noted absently that when his emotions ran high they turned a vibrant golden green, but when he was calm they returned to a soft hazel color. It was his eyes that convinced her to speak.

"Delilah Green."

He nodded, using his trademark smile against her that usually softened up most women.

"I'm Dean."

She remained unmoved.

"Look, Delilah. Tell you what. We don't have a lot of time. We have to move on. But if Sam---" he paused, staring hard at his brother, and she could see his eyes turn a shade greener. He had such strong emotions for his brother. It was getting harder for her to believe that he was out to save his own hide. He obviously cared for Sam very much.

"If Sammy get's any worse then we'll take him to the hospital."

He stared at her hard, willing her to see the sincerity in his eyes. She nodded slowly, agreeing to his terms.

"Until then, doc. We need to keep you with us. I know how to bind up most wounds, but this is a little out of my league. I need you." He choked a little at that, but he rushed forward. "Sam needs you. You can't let him die."

He glanced at his watch; unable to take any more time to sweet talk her. He would just have to leave her to soak in his words and make her own decision. He walked around to the other side of the bed, gathering up Sammy in his arms. The kid was heavy, a lot heavier than he had been at twelve before the baby fat had given away to long bones and lean muscle, but Dean still managed, years of hunting making him stronger than he looked.

Delilah watched as Dean cradled his baby brother in his arms, staggering a little under his weight. She knew that Sam must be heavy, but the square set of Dean's jaw told her that he would carry him to hell and back if he had too.

Dean wrestled Sam into the back seat, trying to be as gentle as possible, but it was hard. Sam was tall, too long for the backseat, and Dean had to prop him up the best he could without putting too much pressure on the wound. Once Sam was settled he went back to get the clothes he had dropped and Delilah.

Wordlessly he undid her cuffs, standing back so she could rise. She rubbed her wrists, unable to look up at him. She could feel him towering over her, waiting for her decision. As a doctor she made an oath to help the sick and dying. She had forgotten that oath and an innocent child had paid the price. Now she had another chance to repay her debt. She didn't think she could live with herself if she walked out of the room and left Sam behind to die. It would kill her very soul.

Slowly she stood up, following Dean as he led her outside to his car. In the sunlight the black skin of the machine gleamed as smooth as satin as it crouched on the asphalt, waiting for its master to give the command to come to life.

She shook off her superstitious thoughts, climbing into the passage side. She leaned over the seat to check on Sam, making sure that his wound hadn't started bleeding again. Dean slid in beside her, bringing the car to life with a twist of his wrist.

A half an hour later, Dean was doing ninety and was sixty miles out of town. He glanced over at the doctor, who was slumped down in the passage seat, her face dejected. Although she had gotten into the car willingly he had no doubt that she would soon be rethinking her decision. He didn't fault her. A half an hour was a long time to contemplate your follies, and with every passing minute he was sure that she was listing off all the reasons that she was a dumbass for getting in the car with what she was sure were a couple of hard core criminals. He knew that he would be.

It's not that he didn't think she wasn't a good person who wasn't true to her word; it was just in his experience that people lied. Most of the time it wasn't even intentional. People start out meaning well, but then common sense steps up to bat and talks them down from the pitcher's mound. She may genuinely want to help Sam, but eventually the desire to save her own hide was going to kick in. That was what he needed to watch for. 'Cause no matter how sweetly he talked to her in the motel room, he still needed her. And there was no way he was going to let her go until Sammy was back on his own two feet.

"How is he?"

Delilah blinked, startled out of her thoughts by Dean's voice. She shifted around so she could lean over the seat to check Sam, prodding him a bit and checking his wound before seating herself forward again.

"He's stable, but we need to get him on a bed soon. He can't stay scrunched up like that for much longer."

Dean chanced a glance back at his brother, taking his eyes off the road for just a moment. Next to him he could feel Delilah tense and he fought not to smile. If only she knew how many times he had driven at this speed while distracted by a woman or monsters, or both.

Sam was twisted up on the back seat, his arms curled around his chest protectively. His skin was clammy and gray and a little blue around his mouth, but his cheeks were still flushed. His long, sandy hair was damp with sweat, and his eyes were tightly clenched.

Dean swiveled back around, his jaw tightening. He figured sixty miles wasn't nearly enough road between them and the law that was surely on their tail. He really wanted to get the next county over if not the next state.

"Another half hour," he promised and gunned it up to a hundred miles an hour. Delilah's knuckles whitened as she clamped her hand onto the door, her feet dug into the floor boards and her back pressed as far back into the seat as possible.

"Peachy," she muttered, wondering if they would survive that long.

Eighty miles later, Dean pulled off the road into a diner parking lot. He parked a few rows back, not wanting anyone to see who was all in the car. He swept his hand over his face, holding his exhaustion and barely concealed panic at bay.

Never in his life could he remember feeling this way. He had been grievously hurt many times over the years and there had always been someone there to nurse him back to health, either his dad or Sammy, but now Sam was the one who was hurt. Dean didn't know what he would do if Sam died again. With nothing left to barter, there would be no saving him this time. He barely fought down the urge to start the Impala up and head for the nearest Emergency Room. Only the thought of Sam spending the rest of his life in prison while he was taking a dirt nap kept him from doing it.

"Food," he stated unnecessarily, earning him a glare from his companion. He ignored her purposely. The fierily look in her eyes when she was pissed was the only thing that distracted him from Sam, so perversely he took great pleasure in poking at her.

"Soup for Sam?"

She glanced back at her patient, noting his pallor.

"Something brothy," she ordered, hoping that she would be able to get it down him.

Unexpectedly she felt something cold encircle her wrist. She looked down in time to see Dean snap the other end of the handcuffs to the steering wheel.

"What the hell!" she spat angrily, her whiskey eyes shooting flames at Dean. "I'm in this metal monster willingly aren't I?"

One corner of Dean's mouth curled up in a cocky smirk that usually earned him a glare, combined with a half shrugged it usually got him slapped too. He figured since she was cuffed he could get away with both.

"Just making sure, doc. Wouldn't want you to wonder off now."

She snarled at him, yanking on her cuffs, reminding him of a cat that just got its tail tied. He shut the door, glancing back at Sam before stalking off to the diner.

A matronly black woman, whose name tag dubbed her Mable, met him at counter when he bellied up. He looked her over, as he always did when he met someone new, looking for any signs of hinkiness. Absently he noted that her eyes were gray, unusual, but not demonic.

"What can I do you for, honey?" Her southern lilting accent was almost immediately calming to Dean. Suddenly he found himself wanting to take a seat and maybe order a milk shake instead of hurrying back out to the car. He shook of the sensation, looking her squarely in the eye instead.

"Get me a couple of cheeseburgers, some fries, and some chicken broth if you have it."

"Sure thing. Need anything to drink?"

"Naw, we're good. Make that to go though."

Mable smiled, writing up the order on her tab before sliding it over to the cook. She wandered away, and Dean scanned the rest of the room, looking over the patrons. He didn't see anything unusual, just a normal lunch crowd.

"So is that your missus?" Mama asked as she poured him some coffee. "On the house."

Dean grunted before glancing out the plate glass window in the direction that Mable was looking. From where he was sitting he could see his car and the vague form of someone waiting inside. He tried not to smile when he thought about how pissed Delilah probably was right about now.

"Yah, the missus." He smirked, taking a sip from his coffee. Mama raised a brow, but didn't comment. The bell rang and she turned back to the cook and started bagging up their food. She put the bag down next to Dean along with the bill, waiting patiently while he dug out some money to pay.

"Say, do you know where there's a cheap hotel around here?"

"I sure do, sugar. The Paradise Inn is just up the street a ways. You know they say that Paradise was the perfect sanctuary before the serpent slithered its way in. It's nice to think that a little piece of Eden is right here on Earth, don't you think? A nice safe place to hide from the world."

"Uh, sure." Dean blinked at her, wondering what the hell she was talking about.

"I'm just saying, it's nice to find a refuge from the world when you are a newlywed." A huge grin spread along Mable's face, revealing big white teeth that were nearly blinding against her dark skin.

"Uh, huh." Dean slid the money across the counter to her, and picked up his bag of food. Ridiculously he had the fight the urge to back out of the door, not wanting to turn his back on the strange woman. As quickly as he could he exited, hurrying back to the car.

He slid the food into the car first, placing it in between himself and a seething Delilah. He uncuffed her hand without a word, starting up the car and reversing out of the parking lot. The woman inside the diner had given him the heebie jeebies and he couldn't get away fast enough.

"What did you get me?" Delilah asked, her voice cool with simmering anger.

"A cheeseburger," he replied, his eyes on the road.

There was a short pause that warned him that she was about to say something that was likely going to piss him off.

"I don't eat meat."

Dean threw her a disgusted look over the bag of food, focusing on her mutinous glare.

"I am _so_ not attracted to you anymore."

She sighed, exasperated with him. "Well I guess you should have asked." _You prick_.


	4. Chapter Three

A/N: Guys, you're killing me. If my story is bad, let me know. If I'm doing something wrong, give me some pointers. If my characterization is off, let me know how to improve it. If you have something good to say that would be nice too, but this resounding silence is very discouraging.

Wayward Son

Chapter Three

He was alone, looking up at a ramshackle farmhouse. It was old and run down, the eaves drooping like shaggy brows over lazy eyes. The roof was missing shingles and most of the windows were boarded up and decorated with orange day glow graffiti. The white house paint had long since faded, leaving it a washed out gray. It rose menacingly up on the hillside, a giant, bloated corpse of a life forgotten, blending into the dark gray sky behind it. A black, skeletal tree stood sentinel next to the house, an old tire swing swaying listlessly in the breeze.

It frightened him. Even if he wasn't a hunter, he would have recognized the house as being trouble. It screamed haunted. Park a pumpkin on the porch and toss a few ghosts in the attic and it could be poster art for Halloween. And, dude, he really hated Halloween. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn't. He was rooted to the spot, forced to stand before it and absorb its horror.

A soft hand fitted inside of his, warm fingers twining with his long ones. He looked down, his heavy heart lightening when he saw Madison beside him. She smiled up at him, her bow-shaped lips curving upwards just for him.

"Hi there," she greeted softly, her eyes glowing warmly

"Hi." He smiled back at her, happy for the first time in a long time. He glanced back at the house, no longer afraid. "Where are we?"

"Kansas."

One gold brow lifted at her response. _Kansas? Well, Toto we are a long way from home. Not._ Why did everything in life always come full circle?

"Where in Kansas?"

"Just outside of Lawrence, silly." She nudged him in the side, as if he should have already known.

"Of course, we are," he muttered dryly. "Why are we here?" The warm, happy feeling in his belly was starting to dissolve and he didn't like it one bit.

"You're having another premonition."

"Why are you here?"

She exhaled a long suffering sigh, and he felt guilty all over again. "I told you that I would protect you like you protected me. No pain while I'm around, remember? Besides I have something to show you." She began to draw him towards the house, but he dug his feet in like a reluctant two year old. She turned back to him, an amused smile on her face.

"This is a dream, silly. Nothing can hurt you in a dream."

"_That_ is a common misconception. There are numerous things lurking around in the dreamscape that would make Freddy look like a catholic school girl."

She laughed, a full-bodied, lively sound that made his gut clench. At that moment he didn't think he could miss someone so much. He missed her, Jess, even his mother, whom he never heard laugh.

"I don't know about that. I've met some pretty scary school girls, but it's okay, Sammy. I'll keep the baddies away."

His eyes narrowed as he glared at her. "You sound just like my brother."

She flashed him a smile, barely containing her bubbly laughter behind, sharp white teeth. "Are you so sure that I'm not?"

His nose wrinkled and instead of two he was twelve. "That's just gross."

She chuckled, tugging on his hand again, and this time he followed, refusing to be cowardly in front of her. She led him up the sagging porch and through the front door. She looked neither left nor right, but led him straight to the staircase in the main room. She obviously knew where she was going, intent on showing him something important.

"This way. And watch yourself, that third step is a duzzy."

They continued up the stairs, hopping over the third step on their way up. Once at the top, she led him down a dark, narrow hall, through a tangle of spider webs and busted boards. Scattered throughout the house there was old furniture as if the last family had just up and left everything behind in their hurry to escape. Over the years some things had been scavenged, but for the most part much of it remained. Unused reminders of a different life, a different time.

They entered a small room, a study from decades ago that had been captured in time. An old secretary butted up against the wall, dust an inch thick piled up on the surface.

"There." She pointed, drawing him closer. "What you are looking for is taped to the back on the inside of the desk. It will have to be broken open to be retrieved."

"What is it that I'm looking for?"

"A ritual."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. He had never gone on a scavenger hunt for a spell in a haunted house before, but there was a first for everything

"What sort of ritual?"

She turned towards him, gripping both his hands in hers. She gazed at him, her dark eyes gleaming warmly, a small smile dancing on her lips.

"One that can save Dean, of course."

His fingers tightened reflexively around hers, and his heart nearly jumped from his chest. His exhilaration was instantaneous as he looked back to the desk. Finally what he had been looking for nine months was within his grasp.

"Oh, by the way, Sam." Her fingers slipped away, and he turned his head to glance back at her. "Look out for the little girl." He finished turning, but Madison was no longer beside him. He twirled further around, coming face to face with a hideous child with streaming black hair and soulless eyes. He gasped in shock, staggering back, trying bracing himself as she leapt at him with extended claws.

"Well this is cozy." He shot Delilah a heavy-lidded look that made most woman sigh, but all he got for his trouble was a half penny sneer. Apparently, little miss candy striper was still pissed about being handcuffed to the steering wheel. Of course the fact that he had did it again, just moments ago while he signed in at the front desk may have something to do with it.

Together they had hefted Sam out of the car and carried him into their ground floor room at the Paradise Inn while no one was looking. Or so Dean hoped. He did most of the heavy lifting, but he allowed Delilah to help, mostly to make sure that she stayed close. After that, he went back outside to retrieve some clothes, a couple of weapons and their food. When he got back, he found her with Sam's IV already set up and bandaging his wound.

"How's he doing?"

"Better." She replied, a little bit nonplussed.

Dean smiled at her, relieved for the first time in twenty-six hours. It was about time that the renowned Winchester healing started to kick in. Over the years they had their butts kicked so many times that their bodies had become machines when it came to healing. It was much easier for them to overcome shock since they experienced trauma more often than any normal human body should.

Food in hand he flung himself on the nearby bed, bouncing a little as he braced himself against the headboard. Digging through the bag he pulled out bowl of broth.

"How do you want to feed him this?"

Delilah glanced around, biting gently on her lower lip. Dean watched, absently wondering if he could somehow convince her to forgive him for his transgressions and baptize him with those lips. They were really nice lips. Full and pink, and come-fuck-me kissable.

He blinked when she moved to pull out some tubing from the bundle of supplies. She turned towards him, and he tried to wipe the horn dog look off his face before she caught him, but he must not have succeeded completely, because her _Jack Daniel 's_ eyes narrowed just a bit.

"We can use this as a feeding tube." She lifted the tubing to show him. "But we don't have a way to release the broth."

Dean leapt of the bed, a wide I-can-do-anything smile on his face. "Leave it to me, doc. Just put the tube down his throat, I'll do the rest."

She have him a look that clearly said that she thought he was full of shit, but she turned away, pulling the pillow out from under Sam so she could cock his head back. Armed with a pen light and the tube, she opened Sam's mouth and fed the shunt down his throat and into his stomach. She did it was such sweet and clean professionalism that Sammy didn't even gag. Dean was pretty damn impressed.

Once she was done, she handed him the other end of the tube, her sleek, blonde brow raised in challenge. While her back was turned he had been cutting down another smaller piece of tubing. He checked the broth, making sure that it wasn't so hot that it would burn Sam when it hit his stomach. Satisfied, he placed one end of the short tube into the broth and the other end into his mouth and sucked. As broth streamed up the tube he pulled the end out of his mouth, covering the tip with his thumb. Quickly he shoved the smaller tube into the end of the bigger tube, watching carefully as the broth continued to stream down the line and into his brother's stomach.

"Just like ciphering gas from a car," he boasted proudly.

She rolled her eyes good naturally and he bounced back onto the bed, finally feeling like he had done something right. Delilah carefully monitored Sam, while he pulled out his burger and fries to eat. She stopped the flow of broth after it was about half gone, not wanting to upset Sam's stomach too much. Carefully she pulled the tube out of his throat, fussing a little to make sure he was comfortable.

Dean had snapped on the TV, and was mindlessly watching some chick soap, while covertly eyeing Delilah. Wordlessly she picked up the food he bought her, sinking down into the faux leather chair by Sam's bed. She grimaced as she unwrapped the greasy burger, using two fingers to pluck the patty off the bun. She put the burger back together without the meat, looking a little green when a glob of yellowish mayo dripped off the bun and onto the paper.

Sighing, Dean got up off the bed, throwing his wrapper into the small trash can by the TV stand. He walked over to his bag, pulling out some tape and handcuffs. Delilah was too engrossed, in her not so engrossing food to notice what he was doing. Stealthily he stalked up behind her, slapping the tape over her mouth before she had a chance to draw the air to scream. She dropped her yuck-o burger, trying to tear the tape from her mouth, but he was quicker. He dragged her closer to Sam's bed, cuffing her hands to the metal frame.

She twisted around, shooting fire from those beautiful brown eyes of hers. Unable to resist he smirked down at her, patting her gently on the head.

"Be a good girl, and maybe I'll bring you back a treat."

A slew of muffled growls emanated from behind the tape and he didn't have to be a genius to know that she probably just called him every dirty name in the book. For some reason that just tickled him pink, and he began to whistle Enter Sandman as he walked out the door.

Fifteen minutes later he was back, unloading a salad, a bowel of fruit and some bottled water onto the small round table by the door. Still whistling he sauntered up to Delilah, pulling the tape from her mouth.

"I hate you," she hissed, thoroughly pissed at him. How many times was he going to tie her up, before he got the hint that she wasn't going to bail until Sam was doing better?

He clucked his tongue at her, undoing her cuffs.

"There you go my little vegan." He swept his arm towards the table generously.

"Vegetarian," she corrected, rubbing her wrist while still shooting daggers at him with her eyes.

"Dude, whatever. So not an attractive trait either way."

"Like I care," she snapped, popping the plastic lid off the salad not bothering to say thank you. She figured she paid her dues by having to be trussed up like a Christmas goose while he was out.

They spent the rest of the day in silence. Delilah was still pretty sore about being tied up again, and Dean had no idea what to say to a woman that didn't involve pick up lines. He never had a mother growing up to tell him what girls thought about or how to treat them right. He never sister to tease into tears then apologizes to. Sam didn't count even during his worst emo moments.

He had no idea what it was like to be around a woman. Just to be in her company. He had moved around so much as a kid that high school girls all just blended together, and once he figured out that he only needed one thing from them he didn't bother to learn more than their name, which was quickly forgotten as soon as he moved on to the next town.

He never had a steady girlfriend like Sam. He never stayed in one place long enough. Cassie was more than a one night stand, but all they ever did well was fight and fuck and look how that turned out. He couldn't tell women the truth, and he couldn't take them home to meet his family. Sam maybe, but not his dad---he was a man who would only tell him not to get caught with his dick hanging out of his pants.

Throughout the day, he surreptitiously watched Delilah as she leafed through the magazines left over from the last tenant or tended to Sam. An unspoken line had been drawn down the middle of the room. He got the side with the bed and the TV and she stayed next to Sam, sitting by the window. A couple of times he opened his mouth to say something, but then he quickly closed it, realizing that whatever comment he had would more than likely piss her off. In the end, he just resigned himself to shutting his damn trap and flipping through the channels.

"I need a shower."

Her comment, so out of the blue towards the end of the evening, caught him a little bit off guard. He gave her a wide-eyed look that said, _and?_ She sighed gustily, clearly annoyed with him.

"I don't have a change of clothes." _You prick_

He couldn't help but to smile at her tone. She sure was a pistol, he gave her that. Her clothes looked clean enough to him, but he seemed to remember that woman were particular about that sort of thing. They had the strange idea that if they wore something once that it was dirty even if it didn't smell or have any visible stains. Dean was in the way of thinking that if it couldn't stand up on its own then it was still wearable.

He got up off the bed, and picked up his duffel, digging through it until he found a somewhat clean pair of sweats and a White Snake T-shirt. He balled them up, throwing them over to her, before stalking off into the bathroom. He made a quick sweep to make sure that there weren't any windows she could squeeze out of. As he exited she swept by him, head high, without so much as a thank-you. Oh yah, she was still sore about being trussed up. Probably about the whole kidnapping thing in general. He wondered how long that would last. Probably a lot longer than it should if he kept poking her just to see that fire in her eyes.

She slammed the door, barely missing his toes. He snarled at her through the door before stomping back to the bed. He heard the pounding of the water as she turned the shower on, and he plucked up the remote, raising the volume on the Springer show so he could hear some trailer trash whore complain that her mama was fucking her boyfriend.

The bathroom door opened up, and a roll of white steam billowed out.

"Do you have any real shampoo? This five cent motel crap is going to frizz out my hair."

Dean blinked at her, and she blinked back. She took one look at his close cropped spikes and slammed the bathroom door again.

He looked over at Sam, a pithy comment about girls and their primping habits on his lips, when he noticed Sam's nice, shiny hair curling around his face. His brother was _such_ a girl. With that in mind he trotted out to the Impala to retrieve Sam's bag. Digging through it, sure enough, he found some chick shampoo and _bonus_, conditioner as well.

He sauntered over to the bathroom door, a shit-eating grin on his face. _Oh yeah, I'm the man._ He knocked loudly, his grin spreading when he heard her curse behind the door.

"I'm naked!"

The shit-eating grin got bigger.

"That's generally how I like my girls."

"I'm a woman, not some wide-eyed, little eighteen year old whose going to be suckered in by that I'm-sex-on-a-stick grin and that wanna-be James Dean ride you got parked out front. And I swear to God if you try to bust your way in here while I'm in the shower, I will scream so fucking loud you'll think you're in a reenactment of _Psycho."_

Dean scowled, his eyes narrowing into dangerous, green slits. Like he would actually do what she was accusing him of. Just because he didn't know how to talk to a woman didn't mean he went around hurting them. Granted, he had fucked up royally with her, but he needed her, and not once had he laid a violent hand on her. And that James Dean comment was just low, way low.

"I have real shampoo and conditioner." _You bitch._ Two could play that game.

There was silence for a moment, then the tell tale scrape of the shower curtain being dragged along the metal rod. Another moment of silence then the door cracked open, just wide enough for him to pass her the bottles, before it snapped shut again.

"You're welcome," he bitched through he door, not really expecting a reply and not getting one.

Twenty minutes, and one empty hot water tank later, _so much for my shower,_ Delilah turned off the water. It took her another ten minutes to actually exit the bathroom. Scowling, Dean had given up his stake on the bed, figuring that she was going to want to go to sleep soon. Instead he had commandeered her padded seat by Sam and was telling him about everything that he missed while being out cold.

Of course, Sam didn't so much as flicker, but it made him feel better to talk to his brother. He was really starting to miss him. He tried not to think what it was going to be like for Sam when he was gone in three months. If Sam felt this strongly about him or not. It didn't really matter. Sam had proven in the past that he was able to live life on his own without needing his family as a crutch. Who knew, maybe he would go on and get that law degree after all, now that old yellow eyes was out of the picture.

Still drying her hair with a towel she sunk down on the side of the bed, silently noticing that Dean had straightened out the rumpled covers for her. She mentally kicked herself for being such a bitch and decided to make the best of a very bad scene.

"How is he?" she asked softly. Dean was hunched over his in chair, his elbows braced on his knees. She knew that he had been talking to his brother before she came out. She had seen it many times in the hospital. Relatives talking quietly to their loved ones, trying to convince them that the worse was over and that it would okay to open their eyes.

Something about her careful tone must have tipped him off because he straightened in his chair. He gave her a hard look, before his whole face melted into his, _aren't I just the sexist damn thing you ever did see, _expression that she was becoming familiar with. He leaned back into the chair, one arm swinging over the back.

"My pansy-ass brother is doing just fine. Although if he lays around much longer, acting like a damn prima donna princess, I'm gonna have to start calling him Samantha."

She blinked. As an only child she didn't have much experience with siblings. Much less brothers. She was pretty sure that bagging on his brother was his way of reassuring himself that he was going to be alright. Either that or he was just a prick.

"Riight." She folded her up her wet towel, carrying it back to the bathroom to flip it over the shower rod to dry. With her back turned she didn't see Dean's; _I'm such a dumbass,_ look that came over his face, or the way he scrubbed his hand through his hair.

She walked back out, and this time Dean took note of her clothing. He didn't know how she did it but she made his dark gray sweats and oversized T-shit look as sexy as bunny-eared lingerie. The pants were too big for her, so she had to roll them up around the waist, and the shirt fell down below her hips. Her strawberry hair, loose from its bun for the first time in days fell down over her shoulders in a tangle that just about begged him to reach out and run his fingers through.

He suspected that her sexiness had less to do with how she was wearing the clothes, but _who_ was wearing the clothes. His clothes. He felt something hot and possessive shimmer through his chest and into his belly.

To compensate he scratched his stomach, warning bells going off in his head. It was one thing to nail a hot chick at a bar in a town they were passing through, but it was another to make a pass at a woman he just kidnapped. That was just wrong, _wasn't it?_

"Are these blood stains?" She had the hem of his shirt pulled away from her body and was studying some obscure stains smeared on the bottom.

He lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, not really know what the deal was. "They don't show when I wear another shirt over it."

She looked up at him, her brown eyes unreadable. A small crease formed between her brows and he knew that she was started to think a little too hard about him and his situation.

Delilah had noticed that Sam seemed to have a lot of scars on his body. Most were old, probably dating back to childhood, but a few more were recent, barely healed and still pink. She had yet to see Dean without his shirt on, but she suspected that he would have just as many scars if not more. It made her wonder yet again, about what kind of man she was dealing with. An image of a Roman centurion flashed through her mind, but she shook it away.

She pulled down the covers on the bed, and pounded on the pancake flat hotel pillows in a useless attempt to fluff them.

"Going to bed now?"

"Yah," she murmured, keeping her back to him.

Dean looked down at his little brother, wondering what he would say if knew what he was about to do. Sam was always such a good guy. A goddamn humanitarian. He would have handled everything with Delilah just right, and wouldn't have shoved his foot down his throat multiple times like he had.

Silently he watched Delilah crawl into bed, waiting as she made herself comfortable. As she settled in he stood up, making his way between the two beds.

"Would you like me to turn out the light?"

"Sure," she said, looking up at him nervously.

He clicked off the lamp; standing over her while he waited for his eyes adjusted. As usual everything swam into focus within seconds. An entire life spent in the dark sharpened his senses into almost preternatural precision. He could see Delilah curled up in the bed before him, her eyes squinting into the darkness. Her instincts were screaming danger, but her eyes had yet to focus in the shadows.

While she was still blinded he reached out, snatching up her wrist before she could yank it away. Once again he handcuffed her to the bed, stepping out of the reach of her feet as they swung out to kick him in the knees.

"Goddamn it! I told you that I'm not going to run away. You don't have to do this." She yanked on the chain harder than necessary and he knew from experience that the metal more than likely bit sharply into the soft flesh of her wrist. If she kept up her flailing she was going to end up hurting herself pretty bad, and that was something that he couldn't let happen.

"Knock it off!" he snapped, and for a minute he thought it was his dad that spoke, instead of himself. She instantly stilled with the same wariness that he and Sam would adopt when their dad growled at them to stop wrestling around.

"If you don't shut up and go to sleep then I'm going to cuff up your other hand and get the tape out."

She whimpered a little in the dark, and he knew that all the progress that they made that day was lost. She was back to thinking he was a homicidal manic that would kill her when her usefulness was done, and he was back to thinking that he was the world's biggest asshole.

"Look, Delilah. I'm sorry. I just don't want you to hurt yourself. I know that you said that you are in it for the long haul, but I need to be sure. I can't have you deciding in the middle of the night that calling the cops on us is the best thing for Sam. 'Cause nothing and I mean nothing is going to stop me from making sure that Sammy doesn't end up in butt-fuck prison. Now, could you just play nice about this one thing? I left your other wrist free, and I haven't gagged you. I just want to make sure that you aren't going anywhere. Lets compromise on this."

"A compromise is deciding to watch Spiderman instead of Steel Magnolias because your boyfriend doesn't want to watch another chick flick." Her voice was downright frosty, and he was relieved that he didn't hear any sign of fear.

"Please."

The plea was soft and even in the darkness she knew that his eyes had turned hazel. She felt like she was on an emotional rollercoaster. One minute she wanted to throttle him, and the next she was terrified that he was going to do the same to her. Maybe she was truly a kidnap victim and she was just kidding herself by thinking she was on this ride by her own free will. All she knew was at the moment she wanted off, and the best way to do that was to fall into unconsciousness.

"Whatever." She rolled over, dismissing Dean and his asshole behavior.

She could hear the rustling of his clothes as he moved away, and when it stopped she knew that he had reseated himself next to Sam.

"You know, you have to learn to trust someone, sometime," she whispered into the dark, feeling safer under the cover of darkness.

"I do trust someone, doc."

_Just not you_.

She pressed her lips together, trying to ignore the little bubble of hurt that gurgled up in her stomach at his unspoken words.

She tried to tuck the pillow beneath her, but her arm was in the way. The handcuffs jangled against the rod iron headboard, echoed by a lisping sigh. Dean shifted in his seat as he listened to the sounds around him. He could hear Sammy breathing, and he counted the breaths, making sure that they were even and clear. He listened to Delilah twist around in the bed, and the metal scrape of her handcuffs. The hours stretched on and Sam's breathing remained steady, but sleep remained elusive for Dean. Mostly because sleep remained elusive for Delilah. She moved restlessly, caught up like a dog on a chain.

Hunter silent he glided across the room, peering down at her in the dark. She didn't notice him, her eyes closed in an attempt to capture sleep. Her restlessness had tangled up the blankets, and her trapped wrist made it impossible for her to settle them back over her.

Fully dressed he slid into the bed next to her, his arms wrapping around her before she realized what was going on.

"What the fuck!" she screeched in outrage.

"Settle down, I'm not going to hurt you."

"Yah, right. And angel's lie!"

"Seriously, we both need to get some sleep. You aren't going to until the cuffs are off, and I'm not going to sleep until you do." He reached around, unlocking her handcuffs and sliding them from her wrist, absently massaging her tender flesh. "The only way I'm going to let you sleep with those cuffs off is if I'm right here next to you."

"Then put them back on. I would rather sleep with venomous snakes in my bed."

"We are both adults, we can do this," he stated calmly.

"Nothing I've seen so far about your behavior towards the opposite sex could be called adult-like."

"Give me a chance, I might surprise you." He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his hard chest in a tight embrace. In a different place or time she might have been excited by such a thing. It had been such a long time since someone had touched her, caressed her. Not since before _the accident._

"I can't," she claimed between clenched teeth, her voice a tad softer than it was before. There was something comforting about being held so tightly, like he would never let her go, never let anyone snatch her away. She could feel him nuzzle his face into her freshly washed hair, inhaling deeply. Already she could feel the tension that had been building in his body since she met him drain away.

"Just try," he muttered, and she knew that he wasn't far from sleep. She breathed deeply, trying not to let her body melt into his, but it was hard. He was so warm and comfortable, and she really was tired. She hadn't slept a wink the night before, fear and discomfort keeping her awake.

Gradually she began to relax and sleep overtook her. She was just drifting away, when she heard a soft voice whispering in her ear.

"See, that wasn't so hard, was it?" To tired reply she fell into unconsciousness.

"DEAN!"

The comfortable little bubble she was encased in burst in a wash of painful confusion. Dean leapt over her, landing on the floor between her and Sam. Never in her life had she met someone who moved like him. He was fast, even coming out of a dead sleep. She didn't think he was ever caught off guard.

The lamp snapped on and the room was flooded with light. She blinked her eyes furiously, trying to wedge herself up on one elbow so she could see what was going on.

"Dean!"

"I'm here, Sammy. I'm here."

Dean was leaning over Sam's bed, wrapping his strong arms around his brother who was struggling to sit up. Sam was panic-stricken, his clawed hands grasping for purchase on his brother's shirt. His face was white, but it wasn't from blood loss this time, but from fear.

"You mustn't let him sit up," she commanded while trying to escape from the blankets that were tangled around her feet.

Sam focused and pulled Dean closer to him, the grip on his brother's shirt tightening.

"Dean, we have to go to Kansas."

She finally escaped from the blankets, and she circled around the bed in time to see the confusion etched on Dean's face at his brother's words.

"What? Now?"

"As soon as possible. We have to go. I had a dream."

She watched as the confusion on Dean's face drained away and was replaced with closed off intensity. In a blink of an eye he changed from concerned brother to the dangerous warrior she had first met. Sam was staring up at him with wide-eyed need, his entire body shaking.

"Okay, Sam. Okay." Dean muttered softly, trying lay his brother back into the bed.

"Dean, we have to go. Do you hear me?" Sam was desperate; refusing to lay back down even though she knew that every inch of his body must be burning with pain.

"I hear you, but it's the middle of the night. Lay down and rest for me. Just rest."

Sam let himself be pushed back onto the bed, his eyes still desperate, but clouding over with exhaustion.

"Tomorrow. Promise me that we will go tomorrow."

"Sure, Sammy. Tomorrow. I promise"

With those words, Sam lost the tenuous grip he had on consciousness and slipped away. Dean brushed his brother's sandy hair from his face, smoothing it back like a mother would a child's. Reluctant to disturb him, but needing to check Sam's bandages she leaned over, relieved when he moved back to the other bed.

Silently she redressed Sam's wounds, questions that would never be answered laying heavily between them.


	5. Chapter Four

Wayward Son

Chapter Four

Dean awoke the instant her breathing changed. He stayed still, enjoying the feel of her laying next to him, his arm slung over her waist comfortably. He rarely woke up next to a woman without a thumping headache from the vodka they both had consumed the night before or without the weary scramble of trying to remember her name. He knew her name, _Delilah._ He knew where he was, _in their hotel_ _room_. He knew why she was there, _to take care of his brother_.

He allowed her to slide out from under his arm, playing possum to see what she would do next, ready to leap up if she bee-lined for the door. Instead she made her way to Sam's side, reaching out to lay a small head on his forehead to check for fever.

Sam awoke with a start, grabbing her wrist with hunter's reflexes. Dean opened his mouth to calm him, but curiosity kept him silent. He wanted to see how she would react to this new turn of events.

"It's okay, Sam. I'm Dr. Delilah Green."

Sam relaxed his grip on her wrist, used to waking up in strange beds while doctors and nurses prodded him.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked softly in a voice Dean had not once heard her use with him.

"I little groggy, and a lot sore."

She smiled down at him, nodding with understanding.

"You were shot, and you are going to be in pain for a while. Do you want to tell me how you were shot?"

Dean tensed, scowling at her back. She never tried to pry any details from him either. It was kind of underhanded of her to wait until her brother was awake to start her interrogation. Through his veiled lashes he watched Sam's face harden, and he almost smiled.

"No." The word was clipped and clean. A tone that was perfected to remind people to mind their own damn business.

"I see." Her tone was precise as well, but heavily disappointed.

"Well, the bullet hit your ribs, cracking them pretty badly. I can't wrap them because the pressure might cause your wound to bleed. I want you to be extra careful moving around. I don't want you damaging your ribs more than necessary."

"Yes, doctor."

She smiled down at Sam her face softening.

"You can call me Delilah, Sam. It's okay. I need to take your vitals."

He nodded, watching her closely as she took his pulse and temperature, before checking the dressing on his wound.

"What are you doing here?"

His question was curt, catching her a little bit off guard.

"What do you mean?"

"This is a hotel room." Sam's tone was becoming increasingly hostile, but Dean knew that it wasn't directed at Delilah, it was directed towards him. It was censure in his voice.

"That's very observant of you, Sam." Her words were light as she tried to infuse them with levity. She didn't like the way he was looking at her so seriously. When he didn't respond, she sighed heavily.

"Your brother opted for out-patient care, rather than admitting you to a hospital."

Sam's eyes narrowed with consideration. She had a feeling that he already had a good idea of what happened even though he was unconscious through most of it. As if he knew precisely every move his brother made, because he would have done it himself if he was in his place.

"Did he scare you too much?"

Delilah winged a brow at that. That was not the question she would have expected from him.

"Don't you mean did he hurt me?"

Sam's face became shuttered, and she knew she was dangerously close to a landmine.

"No, I asked if he scared you. I know Dean would have never hurt you, but he can come off as kind of an asshole sometimes. Especially if he thought I was dying."

Dean had resist the urge to fidget. He didn't like where this conversation was going, but apparently he had a newly developed masochist streak that wanted to hear what she was going to say about him.

Delilah stared hard at Sam, her mind going a million miles an hour. These two men were definitely two of a kind. They didn't think like anyone else she knew. That and they were completely dependent upon each other. Almost like the one couldn't breathe without the other. Such intensity was a little scary, especially among brothers.

"Well, I agree with you. He is an asshole, but he didn't scare me." She paused, eyes shifting away from Sam's. "Too much."

She felt Sam's warm hand cover hers, comforting her. She stared down at it for a moment, noting his long fingers and wide palm that completely engulfed her small hand. She looked him in the eye, feeling a little bit of warmth bubble up in her chest at his understanding smile. He was still pale, but he was looking less like a hurt little boy, and more like a man who had grown up way too fast.

"He didn't mean anything by it, doctor. Try not to hold it against him too much." She smiled back at him, but didn't respond. Sensing her disquiet, he sought a way to ease her mood.

"So Delilah huh? Is that anything like Samson and Delilah?" His smile turned goofy, tilting up at the ends until he looked like a mischievous little boy.

She chuckled at his infectious tone and she couldn't help, but to reach out and ruffle his hair.

"Your strength is safe with me, Sammy. I think you look very handsome in shaggy hair. If it makes you feel better you can call me Lilah."

"Lilah, I like that."

A low, menacing growl emanated from behind her, and her eyes widened. Sam whipped his hand away from hers, hearing the warning loud and clear. Dean threw back the covers to the bed they had shared, and stomped off to the bathroom, slamming the door without a word.

"What was that all about?" she asked shakily.

"Dean's not a morning person," he replied, but there was a speculative gleam in his eye as he looked at her.

She heard the toilet flush and she moved away from Sam's side, suddenly nervous to be caught there. She channeled her restlessness into straightening up the room, first by making the bed she had shared with Dean and then by folding the clothes that he had tossed into the corner last night. It was the first time in a long time that she had shared a bed with a man just to sleep. For hours after Sam had drifted back to sleep she had laid next to Dean expecting his hands to start to wander at any minute, but they hadn't. All he had done was wrap her up in his strong arms, fitting her body into his and buried his face in her newly washed hair. The steady rhythm of his breathing had eventually lulled her into a deep sleep that was blissfully absent of dreams for the first time in a year.

Dean exited the bathroom and all her energy seemed to drain out of her. She sank down onto the edge of the bed, her hands neatly folded in her lap as she watched him. His eyes scraped over her, and she realized that she probably still had bed head. She combed her fingers self-consciously through her hair, but his eyes didn't linger long, instead they focused on Sam, and for the first time since he had kidnapped her, she saw a genuine smile on his lips.

"How ya doing, Sammy?"

"Dude, I've been shot. How do you think I'm doing?" Sam replied testily, earning him a wicked smirk from Dean.

"Yah and you're being such a girl about it. You've been out for almost two days."

Sam's eyes flickered over to Delilah for a split second. "Looks like you had someone to pass the time with."

Dean stiffened a little, but his tone dropped an octave. "_So_ not as fun as it could have been." He smirked down at his brother, knowing that it would irk him. Instead he got smacked upside the head from behind for his trouble.

He spun around in time to see Delilah stomping towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut with a resounding crack. Behind him he could hear Sam's choked laughter and he felt the tips of his ears burn.

"Shut up," he snapped, barely resisting the urge to kick the bed.

"Way to make a good impression. I think she _loves_ you." Sam's voice was thick with sarcasm that just pissed Dean off more.

"Whatever, dude."

Sam rolled his eyes, wondering if he feigned weakness if his brother would stop being such a bitch.

"Did you really have to kidnap her? That's such a sucky thing to do."

Dean turned away, scrubbing his hand across his face. He sunk down on the edge of the bed, where Delilah had been sitting only moments before.

"Yah, I know," he said quietly while staring longingly at the bathroom door.

He heard the shower turn on, and he sighed with resignation, standing up to dig through Sam's bag. He knew that he would more than likely find what he needed in his duffel rather than his own.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Sam protested from his sick bed.

"Shut up, princess."

He found a clean T-shirt with some sort of dragon coiled on the front and a pair of shorts that would be long enough to pass as Capri's on Delilah. He walked up to the door; Sam's clothes bundled in his hands. As expected the door opened, steam billowing out to hit him in the face.

"I need…" She jolted to a stop, not expecting to see Dean right outside the door. He offered her the change of clothing to her wordlessly, relishing the surprise on her face.

"Thanks," she said softly, taking them from him gently, and retreating back into the bathroom.

"No problem."

Sam watched quietly from the bed, his arched brows practically buried in his hairline.

"How many fucking times do I have to tell you to shut up?" Dean growled.

"I didn't say anything."

"I don't need _the shining_ to read your mind."

"Oh yah, what am I thinking right now?"

"Something that isn't any of your goddamn business," Dean snapped while digging through Sam's duffel again. This time looking for clothes to dress his brother in. Sam was shirtless, but he still wore his bloodstained jeans and it was really bugging Dean to look at them. He pulled out some clothes, throwing them at the end of the bed, before reaching for Sam's fly.

"Whoa. I didn't think I was your type."

"Fuck you."

"I would rather not."

Dean yanked Sam's pants down his legs, gentling when he heard his brother's moan of agony.

"Stop being such a girl."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

He finally wrestled Sam's feet out of his pants, the job made harder by the blood that had stiffened the jeans. He glanced back up, staring at Sam's white boxers that had a little blood spattered on them.

"Dude, don't even think about it. In fact if I die, just bury me in these."

Dean's hazel eyes flickered up to his brother's face, narrowing a bit in disgust before he picked up a clean pair of pants with a snap. As carefully as possible, he pulled the pants up Sam's legs, pausing when it become obvious that he would going to have to lift his hips.

"Dude," Sam gasped out, already showing signs of strain.

"Wrap your arm over my shoulders and I'll lift you," Dean ordered, and Sam obeyed without hesitation.

Together they levered Sam's ass off the bed, just high enough for Dean to slip his pants all the way up. Deciding that was enough for now, he left them unbuttoned, figuring that his brother could do it himself once he caught his breath.

They had been concentrating so hard that they hadn't heard the shower stop, but they both heard the outraged gasp that emanated from behind Dean.

"What did you do to him?" Delilah spat through tightly clenched teeth.

Sam was lying back on the bed, panting heavily while sweat streamed out of his pores. The healthy glow that he had awoken with had dimmed to a gray pallor and she could see brackets of strain around his mouth.

She brushed passed Dean, quickly evaluating Sam's condition. She checked his bandage, her anger rocketing from pissy to _pissed_ when she saw the red stain of blood spreading.

"I just helped him change his pants."

She spun away from the bed, intent on retrieving her supplies so she could redress Sam's wound, but Dean was right behind her, blocking her way. Without thinking of the consequences she shoved him hard in the stomach. She was pretty sure the only reason he stepped back was because he was so surprised that she did it, not that she caught him off balance.

"Are you stupid? Don't you realize that he's been seriously wounded?"

Over her head, Dean could see Sam's shit-eating, _hah your getting your ass kicked by a girl,_ grin that only served to piss him off more. Combined with Delilah's words he was nearly livid. And when he was livid, he got quiet, controlled---predatory. He leaned in close to her, towering over her intimidatingly.

"Yah, right. 'Cause that's what I want to do. Kill my brother."

Delilah felt cold all the way done to her bones. Dean's eyes had shifted from soft hazel to jade green, his lips thinning into an angry line. She swallowed nervously, realizing once again for the billionth time that she wasn't a guest here or even remotely in charge. She was a kidnap victim, right smack in the middle of a dangerous game that no one had bothered to hand her a rule book for.

"I didn't say that," she whispered quietly, her body twitching ever so slightly.

"Yah, whatever, _doctor_."

He snapped his mouth shut and shifted out of her way. He watched as she moved around the room, gathering up her supplies before returning to Sam. Her movements were subdued, her eyes down cast. He ignored the dirty look that Sammy cast his way, ignored the way that his brother tried to smooth things over with Delilah, but mostly he ignored the way her hands brushed gently over Sam's chest.

"He didn't mean anything about it, Delilah. I asked him to help me. They were blood-soaked and uncomfortable."

She shushed him, continuing to work, her back and shoulders tense with awareness. Realizing that he wouldn't be able to smooth over this newest development, Sam opted for distraction instead.

"We need to go to Kansas."

Dean's heavy eyes snapped away from Delilah's back to meet Sam's gaze.

"Not this again. You need to rest. _Doctor's_ orders." Every time he said doctor he spat it out between his teeth like it had a vile taste. Delilah's mouth tightened, but she didn't make any effort to respond.

"I can rest in the car," Sam spat back, more than a little tired of all the attitude in the room.

Dean stared at him levelly, cataloging Sam's color, the brightness of his eyes, the severity of his wounds. He was also absorbing the need that he saw in his brother. It was raw and aching, vibrating through every cell. Whatever was in Kansas, Sam seemed to think it was damned important.

"Where?"

"Lawrence."

"Awww, man." Dean threw himself backwards on the bed, bouncing a little as he stared up at the ceiling. Why couldn't his brother ever get a spooky ookie vibe to go to South Beach were the girls were hot and needed to be oiled down?

"We can get there tonight if we go now," Sam rushed on, unwilling to let his brother worm out of his promise that he made last night. Dean turned his head, knowing that it was already a lost cause.

"Maybe not so long as that. We moved a little closer to the Kansas state line while you were zonked out." Sam raised a brow, but didn't ask any questions, figuring his brother would fill him in later. "Besides it's up to the doc. She's the know-it-all."

Delilah had remained silent up until know, but she almost lost it listening to Dean. Slowly she counted to ten, while wondering if she had a teenager if he would be as mouthy and immature as the full grown man who was glaring daggers into her back.

"You are very ill, Sam. It may not seem like it right now, but you got shot. That isn't something to be taken lightly."

"It doesn't matter where I'm resting as long as I'm resting, right? So I can do that in the backseat of the Impala."

"That monster doesn't nearly have enough leg room for you. You are going to have to scrunch up, and that's going to be very uncomfortable with cracked ribs."

"Cracked isn't broke, doc." Dean had heard enough. Sammy could rest in the car, and she would just have to do her best to make him comfortable. Besides he was keen to put more distance between him and five-o. He rolled off the bed, and silently began packing up their stuff. He didn't expect another word on the subject, having given his consent to Sam that they could go. He passed Delilah noticing her tight jaw, but he ignored her as he went.

Delilah didn't speak the entire time that it took to pack up the car or when they gingerly settled Sam into the back seat. Three hours later, she still wasn't speaking, and Dean was on the edge. Sam had asked for some books and was in full research mode, only speaking to ask Dean some questions here and there, other than that the only sound in the Impala was Nirvana pounding through the speakers.

"How's Sam doing, _Doctor?" _Sam's head jerked up at the rudeness in his brother's tone. Since they woke up this morning, Dean hadn't once used Delilah's name, instead choosing to spit out her title like it was an insult.

"I told you my name is Delilah. De-Li-Lah," she spat back, clearly fed up. Sam had to give her points for spunk. Most women didn't have the balls to stand up to his brother, instinctively sensing his innate predatory nature. Much less a woman that had been kidnapped less than forty-eight hours before.

Dean's green eyes narrowed. Delilah. That was the root of all his pissyness since that morning. As soon as Sam had awoke, he managed to worm a smile, a laugh and worst of all, a nickname out of her. She told Sammy that he could call her Lilah, while all he got was a cold grimace and a snappiness. Granted he was the one who kidnapped her, but he thought they had gotten past that last night.

"Dude, overreact much?" Always on the defensive, he sought to turn the entire situation around on her.

"It's 2007, you know? The word dude went out of style with mullets, and heavy metal ballads." She kicked the box of tapes on the floor to emphasis her point. She knew she was being a bitch, but there was something about him that dragged it out of her. A year of being self-sacrificing, and martyr like had worn her down. She couldn't do it anymore. There was no forgiveness for her no matter how many people she helped so why should she forgive the man who dragged her away from her life without a thought to the consequences.

His knuckles tightened on the wheel. He just about had enough! Kicking his collection of tapes was the last straw.

"It's a good thing that you are a _Doctor_, 'cause you would need medical training to pull out that stick that's shoved up your ass. I never in my life met such a spoiled, selfish, self righteous---"

Because of his cracked ribs, and the way he was slumped across the seat, Sam couldn't sit up to reach his brother, so he settled for stretching out his ridiculously long leg and kicking him in the back of the head instead. The car swerved sharply to the right, while Dean struggled for control.

"What the fuck, Sam!"

The Impala hit the gravel and fishtailed wildly, Dean jerked on the wheel, his concentration shattered when Delilah let out an ear-piercing scream of terror. He hit the break, skidding along the side of the road, before coming to a body-jerking stop. He slammed the car into park, shutting it off and turned his entire body towards Delilah who was screaming bloody murder with her hands over her eyes.

"It's okay. We're okay. We're safe." He reached for her, trying to pull her hands away so she could see for her own eyes. Instead of collapsing into his arms in relief like he expected, she started to swing furiously, slamming her small ineffectual fists into his hard chest.

"Calm down! Dammit, Delilah. Calm down." He tried to enfold her into his embrace, but she pushed him away, sweeping her hair from her eyes so she could shot fire at him.

"What is the matter with you two?" She screeched, tears forming in her eyes. "Do you know how many people I've had to try to put together after a stupid car accident that could have been prevented if they just used a fraction of their brain to think? Better yet, do you know how many people I couldn't put back together because they were missing something vital? Like their _head!_"

Dean sat back in his seat his mouth drawn into a firm line. Sam was silent in the back seat, thoroughly chastised. Knowing that she couldn't communicate with them when she was raving, and unwilling to stay in the car a second longer she reached down to fumble with the lap belt. It was the old fashioned kind that you had to squeeze the metal tabs on the sides to release it, and her fingers were too numb with fear to apply the pressure needed to free herself.

Seeing her distress, Dean leaned over to help. Sam jerked when a crack resounded in the cab as loud as a gunshot. Stillness descended with dangerous intensity. Delilah stared wide-eyed at Dean and the handprint that was fire-hydrant red on his cheek. She curled her stinging fingers in her lap, wondering if she was going to die now. She his jaw clench and it galvanized her into action. She fumbled with the belt latch, finally getting it undone. She practically fell out of the car, scraping her hand on the gravel as she leaned on the heavy door to escape. She scrambled away, running behind the car, and stopping a after a few feet to get her bearings.

"Dean, what in the _hell_ are you doing?"

Dean broke out of his paralysis, punching the steering wheel to release his fury. When that didn't work he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to regain the focus he had lost that morning when Delilah had left his bed.

"I don't know, Sammy. I just don't know!"

He punched the wheel again for good measure, before opening the Impala's door to slide out. Wide-eyed Sam watched as his brother circled around the back of the car to approach Delilah. They were too far away from him to hear what they were saying so all he could do was watch.

"Look, Delilah. I'm sorry."

She had her back to him, her arms crossed as she stared out into the woods. She had briefly contemplated running away, but the realization that she had nowhere to go stopped her. She could no more survive in the woods than she could live without air, and it would be no use running down the middle of the road like a mad woman.

"For what?" Some of the spunk had died from her voice, and he found that he liked that less than when she was riled up and ready to go toe to toe with him.

"For what I said." He paused, unsure if he should admit it all. "For being such an ass all day. I was just mad."

She looked behind her, her eyes flickering over him for a moment before she faced forward again.

"Mad about what?"

He sighed deeply, rubbing his hand across his face. He wondered why he never seemed to have trouble expressing himself before meeting her. Perhaps because no one asked him too. Well, besides Sam, and he was easy to distract with smart ass quips and a smack on the back of the head.

"You told Sam that he could call you Lilah." Now that the confession was said out loud, he realized how ridiculous it sounded. There was a moment of silence and he started to fidget nervously.

"You're a dumbass." Her words were clipped and cold, and he felt some of his anger seep back into him.

"You didn't tell me that was your nickname," he spat in self defense, shuddering to a stop when she whipped around, her rekindled fury burning in her deep brown eyes.

"How about being sorry for kidnapping me?" she snapped, and he stiffened. "Did you give any thought to the consequences of your actions? What if I had family at home waiting for me? A husband. A child. A damn dog that needed to be let out to piss?" She was hissing now, advancing towards him.

And maybe that was why she was so mad. Because she didn't have any of those things. Not even a dog. Nor was she likely too. It would be selfish of her to own an animal when all she thought about every day since the _accident_ was running a bath, lying back and slitting the inside of her arm from wrist to elbow.

Dean backed up, hands raised in front of him. He felt something twist in the bottom of his stomach. He felt her anger billow off of her in a wave, and he couldn't really blame her. He had snatched her up in the middle of the night, with no thought to what or who he was taking her from. All he could think about was Sam, and how much _he_ needed her to save his brother's life. About how _he_ couldn't go through losing Sam again, and being left alone. _He_ couldn't stand the thought that he would die in three months, his soul bartered to hell for a life ended too soon. That his genius brother wouldn't live the life he was meant to live, because _he_ couldn't stand to be alone and had to drag him away from Stanford.

"I'm sorry," he whispered softly and all the fight seemed to drain out of her. Her body slumped and her misery was etched across her face. "I'm sorry that I'm doing this to you. I'm sorry that I frightened you, and that I can't seem to stop being an asshole. I'm sorry for all these things, but I can't be sorry that you saved my brother's life. For that all I can say is thank you."

His hazel eyes were bright with sincerity, and for some reason it hurt her deep inside. How many times had someone came to her to thank her for saving their loved ones? How many times had she let her ego get the best of her? How many mistakes had she made because of it? How many lives saved paid for the one life lost, _or was it two now, _out of pride and hubris?

Her head dropped, and she turned away from him again, wiping her hands across her eyes to clear the tears that had started to form.

"I know Dean. It's hard for me to understand, but I'm trying."

Seeing her sadness, and barely able to stand it, he stepped closer to her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Just think if was your family. What would you do?"

She placed her small hand over his, but maintained her distance, staring sightlessly out into the woods.

"There's only my mother."

"There you go. What would you do to save her?"

Her sadness seemed to seep deeper into her bones and her body began to fold over a bit. She pushed his hand away, crossing her arms protectively over her stomach.

"Not much. We aren't that close. She didn't even bother to raise me." She brushed passed him without another word, returning to the Impala. She slid into the front seat, shutting the door as softly as the heavy metal monster would allow her.

"Are you okay, Delilah?"

"Fine, Sam. Just fine."

Dean slid behind the wheel and started up the Impala again, pulling back onto the road. They traveled the rest of the way to Lawrence in silence, and this time no one was willing to disturb the peace.

A/N: Someone asked me if this is a love story, and I can see where it would be pinned as such. Of course this is a story of the Winchester boys all too familiar power struggle to save each other from their own destructive natures, but it also a story of a woman trying to redefine herself. Delilah is seeking absolution, but she will find that she is the only one who can grant forgiveness.

If I had to define this story I would say that it is a tragedy, because the hardest thing we can do in this life is to forgive.


	6. Chapter Five

Wayward Son

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews guys. I really do appreciate them.

Chapter Five

As soon as they were settled in the roadside motel outside of Lawrence, Dean disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He reached behind his head, grabbing a fistful of his gray T-shirt and pulled it off, throwing it into the corner of the room. He turned on the cold tap, letting it run while bracing both hands on the sink's edge.

In the other room he could hear Sam speaking and he felt a sharp spike of anger. Sam knew that he would still be able to hear the exchange in the other room, it was impossible for him not to. A life time of hunting in the dark had honed his hearing, making it easy for him to track a monster by sound alone. Sam had politely waited for Dean to go into the bathroom not to protect his modesty, but Delilah's. It would be easier for her to speak if she didn't think Dean could hear them.

"Dean means well. He's just under a lot of stress right now. Please don't hold it against him."

Sam was situated on the bed the furthest from the door, laying flat on his back. The trip had taken a great deal out of him like she had predicted, and he was looking a little gray around the edges. They had stopped at a drive-thru for food in town, and Dean had been tense the entire time with the expectation that she would scream for help. She had behaved, ordering only a salad and some yogurt, but the strain nearly broke the camel's back. Broke it, stomped on it and ground it into the floorboards.

She pulled out Sam's soup, breathing evenly to remain calm. She handed it to him, helping him to sit up without hurting his ribs so he could sip the warm broth.

"I don't, Sam. You almost died, and I know that puts a lot of strain on people. I understand that he is just doing his best to protect you."

"It's more than that."

She looked at him sideways, noticing how he dipped his head like he already said too much.

"How so?"

"Nothing. It's just---"

"What?" She turned her head to look at him fully.

"He's not going to be around much longer, and he just wants to make sure that I'm going to be okay."

"Where is he going?" she asked, bewildered. From what she was able to see from Dean's interaction with Sam, he wasn't willing to be separated from his brother even for a few days. She had seen pit bulls hold on less tenaciously.

"Nowhere."

Now that was a dead on lie that a two-year-old could spot. Her brow wrinkled as she tried to fit together a puzzle that was frustratingly missing more than just a few pieces.

"Look, Delilah. I know it's hard, but try not be offended by Dean. He's really not that bad of a guy."

"I know, Sam. Amazingly enough, I was able to figure that out all on my own. And it's not entirely his fault either. I'm having some issues of my own, which shockingly have nothing to do with being kidnapped from my clinic in the middle of the night." She smiled down at him, softening her words, but Sam could see a hint of darkness behind her eyes. He knew a secret when he saw one. His family thrived on them, wallowed in them, so when he saw the reflection of hers in her eyes, he backed off. Secrets were sacred.

He finished his soup, and she took the bowl, throwing it into the garbage, before lying back on the other bed, her food untouched. She looked towards the door that was only a few feet away. Dean had walked away, leaving the room, trusting her not to run for the cops. She thought about it briefly. Thought about running and leaving this whole crazy affair behind, but she couldn't. It wasn't Sam that held her. She already knew that he was going to be alright, barring a sudden infection that she found highly unlikely.

No, she stayed because of Dean. Not because he was handsome, and more than a little arrogant. Not even because he held her so tightly in his arms the night before. She stayed because for a few hours a day he made her forget. Whenever they would fight, blood would rush through her veins, pushing out her stagnant thoughts in a wave, and for just a moment, for the tiniest second, she felt like herself again.

For the past year she had been in a deep depression, the kind that prescription drugs and counseling could not banish. This temporary balm that she found almost seemed worse though. For the few minutes he took the pressure off her chest she could breathe, actually do more than just exist, but when the memory of what she had done came crashing back, that agony was compounded. It never really went away, just stored itself up until it hit her like a pair of fists right in the center of her chest.

There was no absolution for her at the clinic where she worked, and her only hope for forgiveness had taken her life six months ago. It was then, that Delilah started to think, that maybe Mrs. Gardner had it right. Perhaps this life just wasn't worth living. Some mistakes just couldn't be corrected by a life time of penitence.

She sighed deeply, staring up at the ceiling, her arms crossed behind her head.

"I have entirely too much baggage," she said mostly to herself. Sam didn't respond and she didn't expect him too. She rolled over to stare at the wall, listening to the water run in the bathroom.

Delilah's words echoed somewhere deep inside of Dean.

_Don't we all, _he thought as he bent down to splash cold water on his face and chest. _Don't we all._

Sam fell into an exhausted sleep early, and eventually Delilah sat down to eat when Dean did. They didn't say anything, but as they sat across from each other at the small round table, it was almost comfortable. It was more like a family sharing a meal than that of a homicidal kidnapper forcing his victim to choke down her last supper. So Delilah supposed that her life could be a hell of a lot worse right at that moment.

She tucked herself into bed, intending to turn in early as well, only to look up to see Dean standing over her, handcuffs out. She rolled her eyes. Not the barest flutter that she would hide when a colleague would say something she heartily disagreed with, but a full on, 'I'm in teenage rebellion mode and I think you are a moron," roll.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"I just have to be sure that you won't try to slip out of here in the middle of the night and call the cops."

"If I wanted to run, I could have done it while you were in the bathroom."

He gave her a look that clearly said that she could have tried, and she would have failed. It made her hesitate for just a moment; his intense self confidence was just a little unsettling.

"I can't believe that you don't trust me."

He just lifted his shoulder in a half shrug that she was really starting to hate.

"This conversation is so butt-ass-backwards. I'm the one who got kidnapped. I should be the one having the trust issues, not you."

"You trust me?" It was a loaded question, but she wasn't sure what with. There was the obvious, _hell no, you kidnapped me,_ response, but it almost seemed that he was asking her something deeper. Asking if she trusted him on a whole other level that went beyond their immediate situation and into something else a little more obscure. She didn't know what to say to that. She was so fucked up at the moment that she couldn't even commit to a pet, much less a man whose life was way beyond the norm. And besides, was he even asking that or was her completely wacked out female mind reading way too much into three simple words?

She gave him one last disgusted look, and swept back the covers, scooting over to make room for him. She was getting pretty damn sick of those handcuffs, and besides she was exhausted. A whole year of exhausted. When he slept beside her, she didn't dream, and as far as she was concerned, that refuge was worth selling her soul to the devil.

88888

Madison sat rigidly in the straight back chair in the corner of the room, her hands fisted tightly in her lap. Behind her the angel perched on the back of her chair, white wings slashing back like a raptor ready to strike.

They both watched the convalescing shadow that floated over Dean who was curled protectively around Delilah. It had no form, no mass, just a dark miasma, but it was so vile that it made Madison's stomach clench. She knew that if it was still possible she would be tossing her cookies right there on the floor.

"Its feeding off the human's emotions. They are so intense right now. So many _issues._"

She hated the way the angel said humans, like they were less than it somehow.

"But we can use it, right? As an exchange?"

She could feel the angel shift behind her, but she remained unmoving.

"This was always meant to be Delilah's sacrifice."

Madison leapt from the chair, spinning around so she could glare at the angel. In the dark it seemed to glow with an ethereal light edged with gold. It's gray, bird-like eyes watched her intensely, and she felt a shiver race down her spine.

"You can't sacrifice Delilah. It's wrong. Besides Sam would never do it. You can't force him to choose between an innocent and his brother," she spat righteously.

"She has already given up claim to her soul, whether she has taken her life yet or not."

"It's not right. Especially when we have a spirit right here whose rightful place is in Hell." She flung her arm towards the black mass in the room. It ignored them both as it hovered over the sleeping pair with malicious intent.

"Let's forget for a moment that _you _have no right to say who belongs in hell and who doesn't. Sacrifice is of the earth. It is ancient magic. It is the most powerful, the most visceral. It is life and death. The beginning and the end."

"It's evil."

"Forced sacrifice is sacrilegious, but a sacrifice of love nearly transcends God."

"What are you talking about?" Madison rubbed her forehead, wishing that she was alive again and that her biggest problem was finding a missing case file for her pervert boss.

"You humans, you always have to organize things into neat categories. Good and Evil. Black and white. You have forgotten what your primitive ancestors already knew, that the world is painted in shades of gray. A mother gives a piece of herself so her child can be born in a bath of blood. The old die to give way to the young. It is the way of the world."

"If the world isn't black and white, then why do you exist? Why do demons exist? Why are there a heaven and a hell, a God and a Devil?"

A small smile flitted across the angel's flat lips, almost like a reward, like she had just picked five out of six winning numbers for the lottery.

"The power of a billion conscious minds is greater than any God."

"What? What does that mean? Why do angels and demons always speak in cryptic code?"

The angel leapt off its perch on the back of the chair, landing before her in a flurry of feathers. It smirked down at her from its great height.

"If we told you humans the complete truth, your brains would break."

It turned on its heel, walking seamlessly through the wall and out of the room. Madison was left with her jaw hanging open, wondering if it was morally legal for an angel to crack a joke at her expense.

888888

"So what's the deal with this place?"

Sam frowned in the backseat as he flipped though some papers that he had printed out that morning.

"It's a ghost girl. Her father locked his twelve year old daughter out of the house during a blizzard in the 1870's."

"That's awful." Delilah gasped. "Why would someone do that?

"According to the local reverends' journal at the time, the girl reminded her father of her mother who up and ran off with another man when she was just a baby. He beat her pretty bad most of her life, but when she reached puberty he finally just snapped and killed her."

She frowned at the rickety farmhouse they were parked in front of. She could barely suppress the tiny shiver that skittered down her spine. As a scientist, she didn't believe in ghosts. As a woman who dealt with life and death on a daily basis, she couldn't deny that there was something beyond this world that she had little comprehension of. What she did know for a fact was that the house was giving her the creeps, and the tire swing that was swaying back and forth was totally wierding her out.

"So what are we doing here? Do you guys get a kick out of visiting supposedly haunted places?"

She missed the sideways glance that Dean shot her, too engrossed in the house in front of her. Sam was silent in the back seat a moment, even the rustling of paper was silent. Frowning she glanced back at him, but he ducked his head. She shot a glare at Dean, but he just smirked at her. Her feeling of weirdness intensified.

"Here."

Sam reached over the seat, handing Dean a piece of paper. Delilah caught sight of a hand drawn sketch before Dean snatched it away from his brother, his eyes narrowed. Sam took the hint and sat back so he wouldn't open his wound.

"What's this?"

"It's a map of the house. Upstairs there's a room that's marked. In the room is an old desk. You need to break it open and retrieve something."

Dean stared back at his brother, one eye brow cocked. Sam stared back, unmoving. Delilah watched them both nonplussed.

"Retrieve what, Sammy?" Dean finally broke the silence with an irate huff.

"I don't know. I guess you'll know when you see it."

"Sam." Dean's voice dropped low in warning.

"Look, spidey senses." Sam waved his hands around his head crazily. "I don't know exactly. I just know it's important."

"For a college student you are amazingly inarticulate."

"Oh yeah? Spell inarticulate, Dean."

"Bite me."

Dean leaned forward, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. In the same smooth motioned he wrapped his strong fingers around Delilah's left wrist, pulling it towards the steering wheel.

"Wait." The request wasn't screeched with outrage, which was probably why Dean hesitated. "Cuff my right wrist so I can turn around and tend to Sam if I need too."

The look that she gave Dean was so full of resigned suffering that he almost forwent the whole thing. The hurt in her eyes wasn't worth the sense of security he felt knowing that she would be there when he got back, but it was worth knowing that Sam would be taken care of.

Wordlessly he cuffed her right wrist to the steering wheel, leaving her free to twist her body around so she could look at Sam over the back seat.

"Hey, Dean. Watch out for the third step," Sam muttered, unable to look up from his lap for fear of catching Delilah's eye.

Dean didn't answer, and exited the Impala, circling around to get his sawed-off loaded with rock salt and a hatchet from the trunk. He threaded the hatchet through his belt at the small of his back and headed for the house, stealthily making his way up the front porch. He winded through the house, holding the EMF reader in front of him, searching for any cold spots or Slimer goo. Finding nothing on the first floor, he made his way up, leaping over the third step as he went. He followed Sam's hastily scrawled map, until he found himself standing over the desk that he had indicated with a big red X on the paper.

Dean sighed, wondering if little brothers the world over were a trial to all their older siblings or if he just got hit upside the head with the lucky pot. He braced his shotgun against the wall, taking out his hatchet and began working through his little brother issues on the antique furniture.

Delilah was regretting asking Dean to handcuff her right wrist to the steering wheel. Granted, she now had easier access to the back, but she had to sit at a slightly cockeyed angle in the front seat with her leg curled around in front of her, her foot dangling off the edge. She didn't need a PH.D to know that if she scuffed up Dean's interior with shoeprints that there would be hell to pay.

The unnatural angle put a lot of pressure on her wrist and the steel cuff was digging into her skin. She absently thought about sliding over to the driver's seat to get more comfortable, but frankly the car intimidated her. It wasn't her place to be behind the wheel of the wholly male, testosterone laden vehicle.

Determined to ignore her discomfort she stared straight ahead out the windshield at the farmhouse. The old tire swing was swaying listlessly and she frowned fiercely at it. She couldn't pinpoint the reason, but the swing was really wierding her out. There was something not quite right about it.

"I bet if you asked real nice, Dean would teach you how to pick the lock on those handcuffs."

Slowly, Delilah turned to face Sam, a disbelieving eyebrow cocked high.

"That would be counterproductive on his end, don't you think?"

A wide grin spread across Sam's face and _oh my, there wasn't one, but two dimples_ winking out from his baby face.

"Nah. Dean likes nothing more than showing off for the ladies."

Delilah snorted loudly, nearly cringed when her mother's imperial voice sounded in her head, telling her that ladies should never be so crass. She turned away from Sam, not able to bear his crushed look and glanced back at the tire swing.

"I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at Dean."

"Sam." Her voice was filled with such exasperated annoyance that he stuttered to a stop before he could finish what he was going to say. She lifted her free hand to her forehead rubbing away the lines she knew were forming between her brows. Finally admitting that facing forward was too uncomfortable, she flipped around, kneeling on the seat, making sure that her feet didn't touch the upholstery. She looked Sam square in the eye, and she couldn't miss the trapped look on his face or the way he swallowed hard.

"You sure do apologize a lot for your brother."

"Yah, well." He gave a breathless chuckle that was meant to fill the silence without really answering her. She didn't let him off the hook, and instead she stared at him hard, drilling holes in his forehead.

"What did you mean that he wasn't going to be around for much longer?"

If she thought Sam was nervous before, it was nothing compared the tension that now filled the cab of the car.

"N-nothing."

Delilah's eyes narrowed and Sam was reminded of a cat getting ready to pounce on a hapless mouse.

"How much longer, Sam?" Delilah was already running some worse case scenarios in her head, and being a doctor, they didn't involved happy endings.

"Three months," Sam replied, his face a mask of misery. He dropped his eyes to his hands, trying to hide his agony from her. Delilah felt something hard hit her in the center of her chest. Her physician's mask slipped into place, and she didn't allow Sam to see the shock and hurt that she felt on the inside at the thought of Dean dying in three months. He seemed so healthy to her, so vibrant.

"What is it?" Her voice was toneless, a doctor's voice.

Sam looked up from his lap, his eyes startled. "W-what?"

"Leukemia? Congenital heart failure?"

"No!" Sam was shocked that she would jump to such a drastic conclusion, but then he really couldn't blame her. It wasn't like she was going to realistically hit on the real reason Dean wasn't going to be around in three months.

"Brain tumor?" Delilah's brow furled, trying to remember if she had seen any signs of degenerative brain damage. As far as she had seen, Dean's reflexes were superb, and he didn't have any memory defects that she had noticed.

"No, God, no. Nothing like that Delilah. He's---he's just going to leave," Sam choked out.

"Leave? Like to another country?" Now she was totally confused. All this angst because Dean had to flee the States? Undoubtedly his criminal activities had a whole _lot_ to do with that.

Sam didn't know what to say. Somehow he didn't think she would respond well to the truth. _Well no, he's going a little further south than Mexico. You see in three months a hellhound is going to appear and tear Dean's soul out of his body and drag it down to hell where he will burn for eternity._ Yah, that would go over well. Sam swallowed the bile that was building in the back of his throat at the thought.

"Sam?" Delilah prompted, and he swallowed again. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died a hard death in his throat.

Delilah felt something cold in the air, and shivers raced down her spine. There was a flash of movement in the corner of her eye, and she turned to look. She didn't want to. She really didn't. Some long forgotten, primitive survival instinct was screeching in her brain, and her skin felt like it was shriveling on her bones.

In the driver's side, sitting inches from her was a little girl. Her skin was pasty white and lined with black veins. Her hair streamed down from the crown of her head like spilt ink, obscuring her face from view. She wore a ragged dark blue dress that looked like it had been fought over by wild dogs and scuffed, black ankle boots. Delilah felt the muscles in her throat clench, and her breath froze in her chest. The little girl turned towards her, and Delilah fell into the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever seen in her life.

Dean frowned at the folded square of parchment that he found on the inside of the desk. It was brittle around the edges, and he knew that if he tried to open it there was a good chance that it would tear at the folds. He had no idea why Sam thought an ancient piece of paper was so important, but he had learned long ago to trust his brother's spidey senses.

A horrifying scream rent the air, and he nearly hit the roof he jumped so high. No matter how much he teased otherwise, he was certain that his brother did _not_ scream like a girl, which left only one other person.

He jammed the paper into his front pocket, and snatched up his shotgun and hatchet. He raced out the room and down the stairs, completely forgetting Sam's warning about the third step until it was too late. He felt the rotten wood give and he tried to leap forward before it shattered beneath his weight. He flung himself forward, pointing his shotgun above him, hoping to God that it wouldn't discharge and blow some import part of his anatomy off,_ like his head!_

Delilah was crouched down against the floorboards, trying unsuccessfully to cram herself under the dash. She was screaming frantically, while yanking on the handcuffs that prevented her from running for her life. The little girl a.k.a. the scariest damn thing that she had ever seen in her life, was floating above her, simultaneously cackling and gurgling with glee at her terror.

She heard a foreign wracking sound from behind the girl, and then a loud boom nearly shattered her ear drums. Safety glass showered down around her, and the little girl disappeared in a swirl of black mist. Dean's face appeared, and she stopped screaming long enough to take a breath, before she started up again, this time using her no-no words.

"Get 'em the fuck off me. Now! Goddamn it."

She yanked on her wrist for emphasis, not even feeling the pain as the handcuffs dug deep into her skin. Dean grimaced when he saw the thin line of blood that was trailing down her arm. Hurriedly, he unlocked the cuffs, pocketing them before picking her up from the floor and dragging her out of the car so she would no longer feel trapped.

This time, much to his surprise given her last reaction to terror, she collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest. Her fists were wrapped tightly in the labels of his leather jacket, and he doubted he could pry her off with a crowbar even if he wanted to. Secretly he had to admit that he didn't want too. Dean Winchester would gladly face down a demon fearlessly, but sobbing women usually made him turn tail and run. Yet all he wanted to do with this woman was to wrap his arms around her and assure her that she was safe. So going against everything his father had taught him, he did just that.

Eventually her sobbing trailed off to heavy breathing that was punctuated with the occasional sniffle. Dean shifted, wondering at which point this would become embarrassingly uncomfortable. He thought it would be pretty soon, but that was before he felt seeking fingers checking the pockets of his jeans. He pulled back just in time to see Delilah yank out the handcuffs that he had stuffed in his pants.

Her beautiful face formed into a mulish expression that would do any jackass proud as she stepped away from him and cocked her arm back to throw the offending bracelets as far away from the car as she could. He had to admit, for a girl she had a pretty good arm as he watched them disappear into a line of scrub brush.

"Never again," she spat while eyeing him with merciless intensity.

Dean gulped. He was still trying to figure out the rules to this particularly twisted relationship and now he knew that, _don't ever fucking tie me up again,_ was number one.

He didn't blame her. He had put her in danger. He had taken away her ability to defend herself or even the freedom to run away. He had hobbled her, and she had nearly paid the price. He had thought that she would be perfectly safe in the car while he went inside, but he had been wrong. He hadn't even the foresight to leave Sam a shotgun.

_Oh, God, Sammy._

He ducked his head to look into the backseat of the Impala, relief unfurling in his chest when he saw that his brother was just fine and was grinning knowingly at him.

"I'm fine, Dean. Thanks for asking."

Sam's Cheshire grin said it all. He knew that he had been forgotten in favor of a sobbing woman, and he found that to be incredible hilarious. After all, Dean was the one with snot on his jacket, not him.

Dean rolled his eyes and glanced back at Delilah who was still glaring daggers at him, waiting for his answer to her ultimatum.

"No cuffs. Got it."

Delilah's whiskey eyes narrowed and he fought the urge to back up a step.

"No nothing. No more tying up the poor helpless doctor. That game has been strangled, beat and kicked to the ground enough already."

A slow, wicked grin spread over Dean's handsome face, and Delilah could practically hear the dirty thoughts echoing around in his mind.

"Even if we---"

She held up a finger to silence him, her lips pursed into a school marm pucker.

"Don't even start with me," she spat, and Dean wisely took her advice.

"Kay, got it."

He held up his hands appealingly, waiting for her to look away before he circled around the car to look at the damage. The blast of rock salt had dispersed the dead girl's spirit for now, but it had also shattered the passage side window. It wasn't the first time that the windows had been blown out of his baby by gunfire, but it didn't make him any less pissed about it.

He folded his arms, glaring at the damage, when Sammy interrupted his internal rant about all things supernatural being out to piss on his car.

"So did you get it?"

"Huh?"

Dean glanced at Sam who was propped up against the back door. His window was rolled down and he was staring at Dean earnestly. It was then that he remembered why he had been upstairs in the first place. He fished the paper out of his pocket, handing it to Sam. The sleeve of his jacket rode up his wrist as he did so, revealing an already livid bruise forming on his arm.

"Dude! What happened?"

Delilah perked up a bit at the question, and he shot a glare at Sam that clearly told him to cool it.

"Nuthin''," he muttered, but it was too late. The doctor had sniffed out an injury and she was determined to treat it.

"Let me see." She circled around the front of the Impala, holding out her hand impatiently.

"It's nothing. I just forgot about that third step. It's not broke or anything."

"I'll be the judge of that." She waited, unmoving. Dean stared her down. She refused to blink.

"Dean, show the professional your owie and maybe she'll give you a lollipop."

He actually snarled at his baby brother, bared teeth and everything. Sam didn't even blink at him. Delilah on the other hand took full advantage of his distraction to pull his arm towards her. His first instinct was to yank his hand away, but common sense chimed in. After all, he might as well take advantage of the fact that they actually had a doctor present during a hunt for once.

"Let's take your jacket off, so I can examine your arm."

She tugged his sleeve over his hand, not waiting for him to respond. He shrugged it off, noticing how considerate she was being with his injury. Sam would have just yanked his jacket off and told him to stop being such a pussy if he so much as inhaled too sharply. _Ah, brotherly love._

She prodded his wrist for moment, asking if it hurt when she rotated it. After a couple of minutes she seemed satisfied that it was only sprained, and asked for some ace bandages so she could wrap it. He went to the trunk, dug around for the first aid kit, and then grabbed up the second shot gun loaded with rock salt as an extra precaution.

He reappeared from behind the Impala with the sawed-off in hand, trying not to smirk when her eyes widened at the sight. She had been so engrossed in his wrist that she hadn't noticed his shotgun was on the roof of the car where he put it before pulling her out. Wordlessly, he passed the second gun through the window to Sammy, nodding approvingly when his brother wracked it with practiced ease.

He handed Delilah the bandage, staring at the crown of her head while she wrapped his wrist. He could see glints of red mixed with the blonde strands in the sunlight, making her hair shimmer with a fiery glow. He remembered the scent of it from the night before, how soft it had been against his cheek. His fingers twitched with the reflexive need to reach out and stroke it. He lifted his free hand, stopping before he completely embarrassed himself. To cover his faux pau he coughed and tossed a glance over to Sam who was watching with unabashed interest.

"So, Sam, have you figured out where the girl is buried? It's gonna be dark soon, and I'm sure she's going to be pissed about getting a round of rock salt to the back of the head."

Delilah was done with his arm and he nodded his thanks to her. He didn't trust himself to speak directly to her so he moved away to stand by his brother. She took the hint and wondered to the front of the car, leaning a hip against the fender. Besides she wasn't quite ready to think about what had just happened. Her eyes knew what she had seen, but her brain was still trying to catch up. She could hear the brothers murmuring behind her, but once again her gaze was riveted on the old tire swing and the creepiness that it invoked. She blinked, finally realizing why it seemed so wrong.

"Uh, guys."

They didn't respond immediately, too caught up in their own plotting. She shot an irritated look at Dean's back as he bent over to speak with his brother, momentarily distracted by the way his jeans molded to his very firm backside.

"Dean," she barked, finally getting his annoyed attention.

"What?" he snapped.

She wasn't sure what she had done to piss him off while bandaging his wrist, but she wasn't a total dumbass. She knew something was bothering him, but really, did he have to be such a dick about it?

"The swing." She pointed to it, like its very presence should explain her cryptic words. He cocked an eyebrow, his lips pursed into his familiar, _and?_ expression.

"I don't feel a breeze. Do you?"

Dean's eyes flickered back to the swing, staring at it while it creaked back and forth.

"Of course. That would be the perfect place to bury a child," Sam commented, almost sadly.

Dean didn't say a word. Personally he rather salt and burn the kid's father for what he had done. Who killed their own child? It just reiterated what he already knew. People were fucked up.

He went back to the trunk, digging out a shovel, _damn his wrist was going to sore by the end of this,_ some kerosene and salt. He then picked up his shotgun from the roof of his car. Being that Sam was out of commission, he had no one to watch his back and he was pretty damn sure that Little Girl Lost wasn't going to stand by and let him dig up her bones without a fight.

He had dug graves on his own before, though he rather not if he didn't have too, coupled with that thought was the surety that he wasn't ready to let Delilah out of his sight just yet. Sammy, he knew could take care of himself, even injured, but the Doc, well---doctors were about preserving life and all that shit. So it wasn't without a little bit of irony that he held out his gun at her, his eyes glinting.

"So, do you know how to use a gun?" He was already fairly certain of her answer, but it never hurt to ask.

She looked at him, then to the gun, then back to him again.

"My family is from the upper echelons of society. We summer in the Hamptons and own property all over Manhattan.

Her tone couldn't possibly get anymore snotty, and Dean envisioned that the stick up her ass was actually a solid gold bar.

"Of course I know how to use a gun. You don't think skeet shoots itself do you?" She rolled her eyes, grabbing the sawed off from him.

He blinked, and he heard Sammy's pained laughter, as he tried to hold his cracked ribs together.

"Great. Let's go dig up a body."

"Yah, because I've waited my whole life for a man to say those exact words to me."

"You know what they say, Delilah," Sam cheesed at her from the backseat of the Impala.

"What's that?"

"A good friend will help you move---"

Dean snickered from behind her, already knowing where this was going.

"But a great friend will help you move a body."

She rolled her eyes, laughing good-naturedly.

"Where do you two get this stuff?"

"Bumper stickers." They chimed simultaneously, laughing along with her.


	7. Chapter Six

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural

A/N: Thank you so much for the supportive reviews, and a big hand to Starliteyes for agreeing to edit for me. She's done a wonderful job!

Wayward Son

Chapter Six

"So." It was the start of a sentence, but her words trailed off like she can't quite decide what to say. In the hole beneath her, Dean tensed but didn't hesitate to dig the shovel down into the earth and throw it over his shoulder with sure strokes. He knew exactly where this conversation was leading.

"God, kill me now," he muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nuthin'."

There was more silence, only punctuated by the thump of dirt hitting the ground.

"That girl---" Again the sentence trailed off, and he knew that she couldn't imagine the words much less say them.

"Was a ghost," he finished for her.

"Ghosts don't exist," Delilah was quick to reply, but she didn't sound very convinced.

Dean sighed deeply, and wonders why he can't meet a not-so-nice girl who was already indoctrinated into the supernatural world and who didn't have dead daddy issues. Someone who wore those sexy leather pants that ride low in the back like all those badass chicks on T.V.

"You're absolutely right. Ghosts don't exist. It was merely a figment of your imagination." He thrust the shovel into the ground, popping his arm up on the handle so he could gesture to the area around them. "By the way, we're not really digging a grave. This is our summer house and you insisted on a pool."

"You're a dick."

"Heh," he laughed under his breath, finding her deadpan tone more amusing than her words. "You aren't the first one to suggest that, sister. It's one of my finer qualities." He took a moment to rotate his sore wrist before grabbing up the shovel to begin digging again.

"The way you talk, your finer quality is going to rot off from overuse."

The steady thump skidded to a stop, and Dean looked up at her horrified. The sun was behind her, and he could see the halo of her reddish gold hair surrounding her angelic face. He was instantly reminded that sometimes evil comes in very pretty packages.

She smirked down at him. "There are diseases that do that you know."

"Christo," he snapped at her and she raised a questioning brow. When she didn't flinch, Dean went back to digging muttering unintelligently under his breath. She thought she heard the words 'evil' and 'women', but she wasn't sure.

"Let's just say for a minute that I believe you about ghosts." Dean sighed audibly, but didn't interrupt her. "Why are we digging up her body?"

"We have to salt and burn her bones to get rid of her."

"Why?"

"It's like death for ghosts."

"Why?"

This time, Dean's sigh was punctuated by an eye roll that she could practically hear.

"I don't know. Ask Sam. He'll wax something philosophical that I'm sure you'll understand

"Dean."

He ignored her, digging furiously.

"Uh, Dean." Her voice dropped an octave, alerting him that something was drastically wrong. He jerked his head up, noticing that Delilah's back was to him, and that she had lifted the shotgun protectively in front of her.

"Shoot it," he ordered while scrambling out of the shallow grave.

Delilah stared aghast at the little girl who was advancing on her. She seemed to skip forward through time, appearing in one place then a heartbeat closer without actually moving. Her white skin was blue around the edges and now Delilah could see the signs of advanced hypothermia, a horrible way to die. To be murdered by her own father that way was awful---no wonder she was angry.

She lifted the nose of the shotgun, but she couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger. Even though her mind was screaming that the ghost wasn't real, her eyes couldn't deny that she looked very much like a lost little girl. A little girl that needed help, not a round of rock salt to the chest. The girl skipped closer and Delilah stepped back, feeling the gravel give beneath her heel. The world upended, and she saw a flash of blue sky as she fell backwards.

Dean lurched forward, trying to catch Delilah before she fell backwards into the shallow grave, but he wasn't fast enough. Thankfully, she was smart enough to drop the shotgun, barrel pointed away from her body, before she hit the ground. He wanted to stop everything to check if she was all right, but the ghost was advancing too quickly, her long nails outstretched, her face twisted in rage.

He dove for the shotgun, rolling onto his back and firing as the girl closed in on him. The blast hit her square in the chest, and she shrieked in outrage as she dispersed into a whiff of midnight smoke. He dropped the gun, rolling to his side so he could peer down into the hole where Delilah had fallen.

She hit the ground hard, her neck at an awkward angle that would leave her sore later, but she was certain that it was unbroken. Beneath her she felt a crunch and something sharp poked her in the hip. It took her a moment to realize that she hadn't landed on dirt, but instead was crumpled in a heap on the little girl's skeleton.

Her first instinct was to scream. Her second was to leap out of the grave as quickly as she could, but she contained herself. She was no stranger to death. As a doctor she had handled more than her fair share of cadavers. She had even done a brief stint in the morgue and had seen bodies in all different stages of decomposition. However, that didn't prepare her for falling into a freshly dug grave onto the corpse of a murdered girl.

She swallowed down her bile, and she very carefully gathered her limbs so she could crawl out. A wide, callused hand was shoved beneath her nose, and without looking she knew it was Dean's. She took it without question, allowing him to drag her up and out of the shallow grave.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded, still not trusting herself to speak without spitting up the thin bile that was churning in her esophagus.

The concern on Dean's face melted off, and his brows drew together in irritation. She had the impression of a drill sergeant that was preparing to dress down one of his men. She supposed she wasn't that far off the mark.

"Why didn't you shoot her?"

Delilah shrugged, looking away. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Dean's voice was harsh and demanding. He had asked a question and he expected an answer. When she didn't reply, he advanced on her, gripping her chin so she was forced to look up at him.

"You don't know? Indecision will get you killed."

She forced herself to look him in the eye, allowing her disdain to show through.

"Are you kidding me?" she sputtered, jerking her chin away. "I mean, _seriously_. This is crazy. We are out in the middle of nowhere hunting a ghost, and you are barking at me like some sort of military commander."

"This is a command." Dean could hear the echo of his father in his words. He wondered when that had started happening. When he started sounding like his dad. That sent a chill down his spine, and he forced himself to physically back off.

"No. This is crazy."

"I don't have time to argue with you right now, Delilah. She'll be back any minute." He thrust the shotgun at her. "Take this so I can salt and burn the body."

Her face was mutinous, but when he shoved the gun at her a second time she took it from him grudgingly. He shot her one last glare, before he turned his attention back to the grave. He could see where the dirt was lumpy, and he knew that the body was just beneath the surface. He dug a bit more, finally disinterring the little girl who had been stuffed in an old canvas feed bag.

He felt his stomach clench at the disrespect she had been shown at the time of her burial. It was obvious that she was cared for even less in death than she was in life. He felt sorrow at what a tragedy her short life must have been.

If he ever had kids he would make damn sure that they were safe and protected. That nothing supernatural or human would ever touch them. And more importantly, he would be there for them. Always. But, he reminded himself, that would never happen. He would never bring a child into this world. Not when he knew what waited in the dark. Besides, who would willingly have babies with him?

He scattered the salt over the girl's body, then sprayed it with kerosene. He heard the shotgun wrack, and he jerked his head up just in time to see Delilah draw down on the little girl, her mouth pressed into a determined line. He knew that this time she would pull the trigger, but for some reason he wanted to spare her from that reality. Even though she was a ghost, she had still been a little girl, and he knew why Delilah had hesitated. She was a doctor, she saved lives. She didn't intentionally end them.

He struck a match, before Delilah could fire; dropping it into the grave, while still staring at the little girl. The girl's soulless black eyes met his, and as the flame engulfed her he could see her eyes turn robin-egg blue as they must have been in life and relief sparked through them.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, sorry for all that she had been forced to suffer. Sorry for not finding her sooner, and releasing her.

Delilah watched in horror as the little girl burst into flame in front of her, before disappearing into nothingness. Dusk had started to descend, and as the last of the flames died down, she could see the first smattering of stars in the horizon. Her eyes locked onto a lonely star and silently she wished for the little girl to finally find peace in the hereafter.

Wordlessly they covered the grave, Delilah helping by pushing mounds of dirt over the side with her bare hands. They returned to the car, filthy and exhausted, but bonded by a deep sense of fulfillment. She climbed into the passenger seat, noting that Sam had drifted off to sleep, more than likely worn out by his wound. Dean returned the guns to the trunk before sliding behind the wheel.

"Do you have any wipes?" She was moving before she finished asking, popping open his glove box. Instead of wipes or even napkins, a slew of badges and I.D.s cascaded onto the floor.

Dean glanced in askance at her, wondering why she would think that he would actually carry something as girlie as handy wipes in his car. He babied the Impala down the dirt driveway, making his way cautiously to the blacktop that was some miles away.

Delilah bent over to scoop up the badges, glancing at the photos and names as she went.

"Ted Nugent? I thought your name was Dean?"

"It is."

She glanced down at the I.D she held, her brow creased in confusion. "This has your photo on it."

He didn't reply, and she glanced at another I.D. "Dean Connors. Is that your last name?"

"No, it's Winchester."

"Like the riffle?"

"Yeah."

She stared at his profile, musing over what she knew about him. So far she had seen him carry a .45 and a sawed off shotgun. She knew that he had a pretty impressive bowie knife, though she had never seen him take it out of its sheath. It was apparent that he ran quite a few scams, all with different names. Winchester was a pretty cool name, especially in his line of work, _whatever that was, _but either way it wasvery intimidating. And she didn't believe for an instant that it was true.

"Right."

Dean shot a glance at her, his brow cocked, but chose not to comment. If she didn't want to believe him, that was her business.

They made it back to the hotel without incident, and while Dean helped Sam out of the car, Delilah excused herself for the bathroom. Dean heard her splashing around, but he didn't pay her much mind as he settled Sam onto the bed. Sam wasn't in a talking mood, and only grunted when Dean asked him if he needed anything.

Delilah exited the bathroom, her face and hands clean, but her clothes were still grimy with grave dirt.

"I need clothes."

"Over there." Dean nodded to his pack, while he counted the cash in his wallet. He figured he had enough to get them dinner tonight, and then breakfast in the morning, but then he would either have to hustle some pool or use his reserve credit card. He figured he still had about five hundred on it, and the next billing cycle wasn't for another fifteen days. He would have that long before they put a freeze on the account.

"No, I mean I need my own clothes. I saw a Wal-Mart on the way back to the hotel."

Her pause echoed in the room ominously. Dean glanced up, shooting her his patented, _and?_ look. She huffed at him, rolling her eyes.

"I must have left my purse at home," she spat sarcastically. When he still didn't answer, her warm whiskey eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms across her chest.

"Look, it's not my fault that you decided that you couldn't live without my company. The least you can do is buy me some clothes."

"Sam couldn't live without you."

At the mention of his name, Sam's eyes cracked a bit, but when he saw that Dean and Delilah were squaring off again, he closed them, feigning sleep.

She wasn't going to be dissuaded by his tactic and she cocked her fists on her hips, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor.

"What? You want to get them now?"

"Yes, now. You are running out of clothes for me to wear, and I want something that actually fits."

Dean shifted his weight. The thought of taking her into a public place like Wal-Mart made him exceptionally nervous. So far she had kept her word, and hadn't even once tried to run away. And he did sort of owe her after leaving her cuffed to the steering wheel, trapped and defenseless against the ghost. Neither of them bothered to mention that Sam was well out of the woods, and her presence technically was no longer needed. Dean didn't want her to go, and Delilah didn't really have any place she wanted to be.

Dean felt like throwing his hands in the air, but he kept his manly stance.

"Fine."

"Fine," she echoed walking towards the door.

"What do you want to eat while we are out Sam?" Dean wasn't fooled for a second. He knew that his brother was playing possum.

"The biggest cheeseburger you can find with a load of fries on the side. Don't forget the ketchup," he ordered, his voice not the least bit sleepy. He was _starved_. He hadn't eaten a solid meal in days, and his body was working overtime to heal itself. He needed food like he needed air to breathe.

"I don't _think_ so, Sammy Winchester." Delilah caroled from the by door, and Dean shot her a disgusted look on his brother's behalf. "We'll bring you back some yogurt, and an egg salad sandwich. How does that sound?"

"He's not a vegetarian, you know," Dean snapped.

Delilah lifted a brow, and stared him down. "He's recovering from surgery. He can't eat anything heavy or greasy. He needs the protein from the eggs, and the live cultures in the yogurt will do him good."

Dean took a deep breath, ready to argue his brother's case when Sam chimed in.

"Egg salad and yogurt sounds great."

Dean turned back to him, rolling his eyes. "Wussy," he muttered in response to his brother's retreat from the battle line he had drawn on his behalf.

"Whatever, dude. Just hurry up. I'm starved."

Dean followed Delilah out the door, giving his brother one last glance before leaving.

Sam waited until the Impala's familiar rumble drifted off into the distance before he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. With all the excitement of Delilah being attacked, and burning the body, Dean had forgotten why they had been at the farm house in the first place, but Sam hadn't.

Sam was actually thankful that Delilah was around. If she hadn't been, Dean would have been a lot more suspicious of what was going on. As it was, the doctor had him turned inside out, and he was so distracted that he didn't realize that his little brother was up to something.

Normally, that wouldn't be the case. Dean loved to chase women, but he never let that get between him and his number one responsibility of watching out for Sam. But the fact that Delilah was there to take care of Sam's health was throwing him off guard. They never had a woman right in their space before, up close and personal. It was bound to get Dean turned around, and it worked to Sam's advantage.

He fished the aged parchment out of his pocket, and carefully smoothed it out on the table next to him. The seams where it was folded tore a little, but not so much that they rendered it unreadable. The dark brown ink flaked, and Sam was certain that the ritual had been penned in blood. Whether it was human or not was unknown.

He studied it for a long time, his mouth drawn into a firm line. It didn't take him long to memorize it. It was incredibly simple, but the most heinous of spells usually were. B-rated movies and bad campfire stories had turned ritual sacrifice into some horrendous ordeal that took five days to complete and a bevy of chanting, cowl-draped monks, but the fact of the matter was that they weren't that complicated at all. Spilled blood was exactly that. Say the words, draw the symbols, and evil could be manifested.

Grimly Sam stood up from the bed, unsteadily making his way across the room towards the bathroom. He stopped at his bag to dig out his lighter, before entering the small, but brightly painted bathroom, closing the door behind him. He dropped a towel onto the floor, using his foot to push it up against the gap beneath the door. He turned towards the bathtub, standing over it and stared at the parchment in his hand.

He would do almost anything to save his brother. He would fight demons, lie to angels, and hell, he would even spit on his father's ashes if it meant saving Dean. What he could not do was sacrifice another life for Dean's.

Sam felt something clench deep inside him, twisting his guts up. His father had told Dean that if he couldn't save him that he was going to have to kill him. Sam took that to mean that it was possible for him to go darkside. Dean didn't believe it, not for an instant. Even when Meg had possessed him, and so convincingly played homicidal, did Dean stop believing in Sam. Not once did he stop protecting him. He couldn't fathom a world where Sam was evil, and since that world could not exist then the possibility of evil Sam could not exist either.

What Dean didn't realize, was that Sam knew that him going darkside was a very real possibility. That's why he was so frantic to save as many people as possible. Why he needed to change his destiny. It was why he had begged Dean to kill him, if he ever turned. Because Sam knew that he had the capability to commit evil.

When Sam looked at the paper in his hand, he didn't see a moral impossibility. He saw a sin that he would very willingly commit in order to save his brother. Because what Dean didn't know was that Sam would do anything---_anything _to see his brother safe. Even if it mean burning the world to ash to do so.

The only reason that Sam didn't entertain the possibility of using the ritual was because he knew that it would kill Dean. Not physically, but spiritually. If he ever found out that another life had once again been sacrificed to save his, he would be devastated.

Even then, Sam would still consider it. Because his brother would be alive, and he would be safe, and his soul wouldn't be rotting in hell.

But the unthinkable part of the deal was that Dean would never forgive Sam for committing such a heinous crime. Dean would look at him with disgust, turn his back on him, leave him alone more completely than if he had died. Sam could not risk that. Sam could not live with that.

With a flick of his thumb he popped the top of his lighter and lit it. Flames danced across his stoically set face as the parchment caught fire, the aged paper burning rapidly. He dropped it, watching as it fluttered to the bottom of the tub, turning to ash in seconds. He ran the shower to wash it down the drain, erasing the evidence of its existence.

As it drained away, he tried not to think about the symbols he had memorized, the words that echoed in his head. Though the paper was gone, the ritual remained, locked away in the Winchester vault of Sam's mind, joining the whispers that taunted him daily. Adding its voice to the never-ending, merciless chant of, _Dean's going to die._


	8. Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural.

Thanks so much to Starliteyes for catching all my horrid grammer errors!

Wayward Son

Chapter Seven

Sam could smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine in the air as it trickled by in the midnight breeze. A fat, lazy moon hung heavy in the clear sky, casting shafts of light through the thick overhang of trees, illuminating the landscape around him. White marble mausoleums decorated with wrought iron and dead, rotting flowers lined the winding path he was standing on. They were crammed together, next to carved stone tombs and sunken entrances to underground crypts. Blooming vines crept over statues of Madonnas and lamenting angels, threading along until they reached the tall, thick wall that encircled the entire cemetery.

It was by far the most beautiful and peaceful graveyard he had ever visited, and he had seen many throughout his life. There was something about it that made him want to wander the cobbled paths mindlessly as he basked in the intoxicating scents and sounds of the warm summer night. Crickets played their sing-song melody and in a distance a dog howled a lonely ballad. Beyond the thick adobe wall, Sam could hear faint sounds of passing traffic, and the pulsing heartbeat of city life.

He wasn't surprised when slender arms encircled his waist and a woman pressed her length against his solid back. She was warm and soft, the embodiment of everything he imagined a woman should be. She slid around, ducking under his arm so they were chest to chest, her dark eyes peering up into his blue-green ones.

"I know now, when you'll appear. The dreams are so real, so vivid. Will it always be that way?" His words were deep and husky, a voice meant for satin sheets and moonlit bedrooms. He felt her shiver against him, and he pulled her deeper into the shelter of his arms.

"You, more than anyone, should know that the veil between dreams and reality is whisper thin." Her tone matched his, bedroom throaty and champagne sweet.

"Thin, but insurmountable." Sam's words hardened and his body tensed with disappointment.

Madison shrugged, twisting so one arm wrapped around his back and she was tucked into the shelf beneath his shoulder. She tugged him forward, prodding him to walk beside her.

"The insubstantiality of dreams can be made into reality," she murmured as they traversed the path. Most of the cobblestones were lying evenly, but a few were missing and clumps of thick ground cover grew in the barren spaces, their tendrils crawling along the crevices of the stones.

"You mean my visions that become reality."

She nodded and his frown deepened.

"But dead is dead." His words dropped into the night like heavy boulders being lobbed from a catapult. She stiffened against him, before her body noticeably relaxed. She glanced up at him, dancing, dark eyes veiled by thick lashes.

"Dead in reality, but here with you now."

"You never answered me. Will it always be that way?" He pulled her to a stop, forcing her to keep her gaze locked with his. Her eyes grew moist, and she lifted one small, pale hand to brush against his cheek.

"It will be this way as long as you wish it. Here, in this world, I am yours." She pulled her hand away from his face, sweeping it across the dreamscape.

He cupped her heart-shaped face in his huge hands, his fingertips brushing under dark hair to wrap around her sensitive nape while his palms cradled her jaw. He tilted her head back, and her eyes drifted closed as he lowered his lips to hers. He tasted her, teased her with his tongue until her pink lips parted under his. He swept his tongue past her teeth, deepening their kiss, claiming her as his. She could feel his brand upon her lips and she surrendered to it, basked in the simplicity of it.

They parted and Sam could hear his rough breathing echoing in his ears, but the sound was lonely. Under his watchful eyes, her cheeks remained pale, her lips stayed a soft pink and her chest did not rise and fall. His lashes swept downward, but they weren't fast enough to hide his disappointment and despair.

Wordlessly, Madison turned from him, masking her own sadness as she pointed at a thick, towering tree sprouting from the center of a cracked crypt.

"The Vampire Tree," she announced and Sam looked where she pointed. It was then that reality intruded upon his dream.

"We are at Panteon de Belen."

Madison looked back at him in surprise and he smiled. "I know my bone yards. It's a Winchester family requirement."

She laughed at that, and the sound dispersed the heavy angst in the air, but for only as long as her tinkling chimes echoed. Reality was still an intruder, and Madison's reasons for appearing were clear to Sam.

"I read that ritual that you sent me after, Madison. You had to have known that I would never do such a thing. I could never sacrifice someone else to save my brother."

Madison's gaze dropped to the ground and her shoulders lifted with a stifled half chuckle. It seemed as though she was laughing at her own personal joke rather than him—that he was confirming something for her that she already knew.

"Of course you wouldn't, Sam. That's what makes you so wonderful." She met his eyes before her gaze skated back to the stone crypt. "The tool that you need to complete the ritual is buried in the tomb beside the body. Since the stone is cracked it should be easy enough to retrieve."

Sam's golden brows grew together in a fierce frown, and all the frustration that he had felt building inside him the last few months came to a head. He reached out, wrapping his strong fingers around Madison's upper arms, pulling her towards him. He growled down at her, shaking her slightly as he tried the control the rage festering inside of him.

"I told you that I wouldn't do it. Don't you think I want to? Don't you think I want to save my brother more than anything? But I can't do it. I would never forgive myself_. Dean_ would never forgive me."

When he said his brother's name it was laced with so much pain that Madison had to fight the urge to wince. He loved his brother so deeply, that it was actually preventing Sam from saving him. He couldn't bring himself to do something that would lower his worth in Dean's eyes.

"Sam." She pressed the palms of her hands against his hard chest, her touch and voice soothing him instantly. She sunk into him, resting her head at the hollow of his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist. She pressed herself against him, and he responded by encircling her thin shoulders with his arm, resting his chin on the crown of her head.

"I know you would never trade an innocent person's life for your brother. But Sam, you know there is so much more out there, hiding in the dark. Souls that wander, evading the hounds that would pull them into Hell. A soul such as that, something profoundly evil, could easily be offered in your brother's place and there would be no guilt in that. In fact, all you would be doing is your job. Sending another spirit back to where it belongs."

Sam's arm tightened around Madison as her words touched him. She was offering him hope, a light in the ever increasing darkness and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab it with both hands.

"And where would I find this spirit?"

Her laugh was husky, and not for the first time, Sam wished he had dreamed of something more romantic than a graveyard.

"Sam," she chided, and he smiled into her hair. "You could easily find a spirit. However, there is one closer to you than you think. All you have to do is look."

It sounded so simple, so easy. Devil's pacts were often that way. Sam pulled away, looking deeply into Madison's dark eyes, and for the first time he wondered if it was really her. Everything about her was a temptation, her face, her body, her voice. The hope that she gave him was almost too good to be true.

She saw his frown and her smile faded, her eyes becoming hooded.

"And if I don't?" Sam's words were cold and clipped, beating her away without blows.

A small, pink compact appeared in her hand, and she flipped it open, refusing to meet his accusing gaze as she pretended to check her make-up.

"Then Dean dies." Her tone was sharp, but the wealth of sarcasm beneath them screamed that there was so much more that she wasn't saying.

"And?"

Madison continued to look into her mirror, and Sam felt his fingers curl with the urge to tear it from her hands.

"Well, without Dean as your shield, you will eventually falter."

Sam snorted and spun away from her. He glared out at the darkness, wondering what was past the thick adobe wall that encircled the graveyard. The sound of traffic had died away, and the lonely dog had fallen silent.

"You are talking about me going Darkside. Well that isn't going to happen anymore. The yellow-eyed demon is dead, remember?"

Madison sighed behind him, and he felt the center of his shoulder blades twitch—a well-honed instinct that shrieked that something was following him.

"Think of Hell as a corporate entity. Just because someone in middle management dies doesn't mean that the position they had disappears."

In the distance Sam could hear the wail of a siren, and beneath his feet, the ground trembled slightly. He turned back towards her, his eyes narrowed.

"What are you saying?"

"The bond you and Dean share goes so much deeper than most family ties. He is the thread that grounds you to reality, which keeps you innocent even when you are not. When he is gone you will find yourself lost. You are strong, and you'll hold out for a good long while, but eventually your grief will erode your sense of righteousness."

Somehow they found themselves at the cemetery's exit, and together they walked through the intricately curved wrought iron gate. A few steps from the curb was an old fashion gas lamp. They stopped beneath it, bathing in the yellow pool of light that it cast. Beyond the light there was only a deep darkness that spread out for an eternity. Sam looked behind him, but he could no longer see the gates to Panteon de Belen. They had disappeared into the darkness like the rest of the world.

"You're lying. That would never happen."

Madison stared out into the darkness, tears leaking from her eyes. Sam grabbed her arm roughly, forcing her to turn and look at him. The wail of distant sirens became more insistent, and the rending of steel echoed around them. The trembling in the ground became a low rumble, and Sam had to brace his feet apart to keep from stumbling. Sam ignored it all, his attention centered on disproving the woman who was reciting his greatest fear to him, verbalizing his destiny.

"No, it's not true. The yellow-eyed demon is dead. No one is hunting me. I'm free. These things won't happen. I won't let it."

"Yes, the yellow-eyed demon is dead, but all that means is that his position is in need of being filled. A vacuum was created and someone must rise up to take his place."

"Who? Who is it? I will kill them too."

The sorrow on Madison's face was etched so deeply that Sam could feel his heart breaking. Slowly she lifted the open compact, facing it outwards so his reflection appeared in the mirror. His eyes skittered away from hers as he peered into the polished glass. He saw his face, the square jaw and tanned cheeks. His shaggy brown hair fell over his creased brow. What he didn't see was the familiar blue-green of his eyes. Instead they glinted yellow in the darkness, shining with the fires of hell.

"You couldn't live without Dean so one day you made a deal. You and Dean were reunited. Blood being thicker than water as they say. Essentially you're still the same. You still hunt, but the game is different. You still stand together, side by side, protecting each other from any threat be it Heaven or Hell. It's common knowledge that starting something with one brother means starting it with the other. You're inseparable. Undefeatable. Un-killable."

From the darkness the Impala appeared. It drove out of the shadows, liquid sleek, crouching low. Its black metal body was polished until it looked like obsidian glass, the bright headlights cutting through the night as it pulled up to the curb.

Madison stepped outside of the ring of light and melted into the shadows. She didn't whisper or wave goodbye and her departure went unnoticed by Sam. He peered into the windows of the Impala, but was unable to see past the tinted glass.

With practiced ease he opened the passenger door, and slid onto the leather seat. Now looking out through the windshield the world spread out before him changed. The empty darkness was burned away by orange flames licking the sky. Blazing buildings toppled into each other as the metropolis crumbled to a smoking ruin. The city streets were strewn with bodies, and crimson blood ran in the gutters. Dogs barked with terror, and women holding their dead children wailed in misery.

"I'm done here, little brother. Are you ready to go?"

Sam turned his head to look at Dean whose lips were twisted in a cocky grin. His brother's sharp white teeth flashed in the dying light of the flames and Sam felt something writhe in his insides. Everything about Dean seemed normal, right down to the upturned collar of his leather jacket. Everything except his eyes. They were liquid black, polished obsidian, matching the sheen of his precious car.

The world tilted on its axis, and in the distance Sam could hear the frantic screams of a woman. Sam swallowed hard, and pain bloomed behind his eyes. Suddenly his whole body jerked and he was no longer looking at his brother, but was staring at the white cottage cheese ceiling of their motel room. He blinked his nightmare away, but the woman's screams continued to reverberate around him.

He snapped his head to the side, seeing Dean and Delilah standing beside their queen-sized bed. Dean was holding her in a calming embrace, but her eyes were locked onto something on the bed. Sam looked over, stunned to see Dean's bowie knife stabbed through her pillow and into the thick mattress beneath in a very obvious threat.

"Dude, what the hell?" He hauled himself up so he could brace his back against the headboard of his bed. He wasn't feeling quite strong enough to stand up just yet. Maybe after three cups of some very black coffee.

"I don't know," Dean clipped a reply before returning his attention back to Delilah. "You need to calm down. It's all right."

"The hell it is! Which one of you did this? Why would you do this? What is the matter with you two?" Her rapid fire questioning made both their heads spin.

Dean spun her in his arms so she faced him, cutting her off from the sight of the knife jammed into her pillow. The very same knife that he had set on the nightstand beside him before they fell asleep the night before. Since sharing a bed with her he had stopped shoving the blade under his pillow for fear that she would accidently cut herself with it. How it ended up thrust into her pillow was a mystery. The fact that she would blame them was infuriating. She was still whimpering a bit under her breath, and he shook her lightly to get her full attention.

"We didn't do this, Delilah. You have to know that. We would never do such a thing."

"If not you, then who?" she spat, her whiskey eyes glaring at him hard.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn't find the words. What was he supposed to say to her?

From the corner of his eye, Sam caught a glimpse of something formless, a dark shadow in the corner of the room. He glanced to the side, but nothing was there. His eyes narrowed, before he turned his attention back to his brother and Delilah.

"Look, Lilah. You know that we are different. We do things that aren't ordinary. Sometimes the work that we do follows us home."

Delilah's gaze skittered over to Sam as he spoke. His sandy hair was flopped over his forehead, and his eyes were wide with sincerity. There was something about his face that just radiated truthfulness and she faltered. She was so confused that she didn't know what to think.

"Are you talking about ghosts?"

"More like a poltergeist," Dean answered softly, and she glanced back at him. His hazel eyes were earnest and her confusion grew. No matter what she had seen the day before, her mind was still convinced that there was no such things as ghosts or poltergeists. And for good measure, Santa Claus didn't exist either, _dammit_.

"I uh, need a minute." She moved away from Dean and gathered up the bags of clothing she had purchased from Wal-Mart the night before.

When she had walked into the motel room after her shopping trip with Dean she had been bubbling with happiness. She had never been to a place like that before. She had promptly dressed herself in some jean cut off shorts and a pair of two dollar flip flops. If her mother could have seen her, she would have had a heart attack right there on the spot. The Greens did not shop off the rack, much less at a store where you could buy both clothing and groceries at the same time. It was just unheard of.

She took her newly purchased clothing and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. Sam and Dean watched her go, both of their faces grim.

Dean glared despondently the closed door a moment longer, before he snatched up his knife to sheath and tuck away in his duffel. When he looked at Sam, the grim expression on his face deepened.

"Where is it?"

Sam shot him a startled glance, his puppy dog eyes firmly in place.

"Where's what?"

"The paper that you sent me to dig up in Hell's fun farmhouse yesterday."

Sam frowned and squirmed in his bed uncomfortably. Dean saw the unconscious movement and his eyes narrowed.

"What? Did you think I would forget? I'm not that distracted, Sammy, no matter what you think."

"I burned it," he muttered, his eyes downcast. He picked at the god-awful paisley print bedspread that was bunched up in his lap.

"What? Why? I thought you were all hell-bent on finding it." Dean snapped, cutting another look at the closed bathroom door. They heard the shower turn on and they both sighed in relief.

"It was a necromancy spell. Not the kind of shit we want to have around."

Dean frowned at his brother, wondering what the hell was going on with him. Sam's hair was matted with dried sweat, and his cheeks were flushed with color. He stepped closer, slapping his palm over Sam's forehead to check for a fever.

"What the hell? Get off me, Dean." Sam swatted him away with a lazy, heavy hand.

"You don't have a fever. Did you have a nightmare?"

Sam shrugged, looking away. He didn't want to talk about his dream just yet. He was still separating the reality from the fantasy---the vision from the nightmare. He was trying to decide if he was desperate enough to do as Madison suggested and swap souls with the devil.

"Do you think that parchment is the reason we have an uninvited guest?" Dean asked, his eyes skating around the room suspiciously.

Sam watched him a moment before answering. "Maybe." That was a damn lie, but Dean was too busy looking for something to kill to notice. Sam was pretty sure that whatever was haunting them had been with them longer than just one night. However, whatever it was, Sam wasn't sure if he was ready to have it leave just yet. He hadn't committed to anything, but he didn't want to limit his options either.

Dean frowned at Sam's answer, his hazel eyes landing on his brother in a harsh glare. He decided to let it slide. There was nothing he could do about the ghost at the moment. He would just have to wait and see if it would reappear. Until then he would keep an eye out and a shotgun loaded with rock salt nearby.

"Well if all you were going to do was burn it, then why the hell did your weirdo vision insist on you finding it."

Sam frowned, knowing that he couldn't tell Dean the truth. If he let it slip that he was on a quest to save him, Dean would shut down entirely. It seemed he was dead set on dying in three months. He wouldn't say why, but Sam was fairly sure that it had something to do with him and the deal Dean struck with the crossroads demon.

"Maybe to make sure that no one else found it and made use of it."

"I don't know, Sam. It was fairly well hidden."

"Things get found all the time, Dean."

Dean's eyes narrowed even further as he glared at his brother. Sam still wouldn't meet his eyes and Dean knew that he was up to something. Sam thought he could run a bait and switch behind Dean's back while he was distracted by Delilah, but he was dead wrong. Dean could be two counties over and know that his little brother was scamming. The boy just didn't know it.

Delilah breezed out of the bathroom, her hair pulled back into a wet bun, with no make-up on her face. She was dressed in a bright pink tank and a pair of jean shorts. It was the least put together, Dean had ever seen her, and that was including the three days she spent in the same set of clothes. It was almost like she was shedding her skin and becoming someone else. Someone he could more easily relate too.

"So where are we off to?" She sat down on the bed, pulling on a pair of flowered flip flops. It was clear by her bright tone, and cheery demeanor that she had decided to forget about the whole knife incident. Dean smirked at her. That was a coping mechanism that he had no problem understanding. He was of the belief that if you ignored something long enough then it just went away.

"Guadalajara," Sam answered before he could change his mind.

Dean whipped around to stare at him in disbelief and Delilah's mouth popped open.

"Guadalajara, Mexico? The home of the tequila train?" From the look on Dean's face, Sam could tell that his brother didn't know if he should be stunned or elated.

"Why would you want to go to Mexico?" Delilah's mouth had snapped shut, and now she was frowning at Sam as well. What she was really asking was if they had decided to skip the country after all.

Dean's brow furled and Sam knew that he had decided to forgo stunned and elated and opted for suspicious instead.

"An excellent question, Delilah, but a better one would be; how are we getting to Mexico?"

"Fly," Delilah offered.

"Drive," Sam chimed.

Dean cut a mean look towards Delilah that startled her, before he shot an equally nasty one at Sam.

"Firstly, we are not driving my baby into Mexico. We'll never get her back in one fucking piece. Secondly, once we arrive, there is no way that we can get back over the border. Hell, there is a good chance that we wouldn't be able to get over the border in the first goddamn place. I'm sure Hendrickson has our pictures pasted up and down the Rio Grande." He turned to face Delilah with his finger raised in censure. "And thirdly, I don't fly, sister."

Delilah blinked at him a moment before her pale pink lips curved up into a smile at his absolutely affronted tone at her suggestion that he fly.

"Ah, is yous afraid? Poor little boo boo."

"Keep it up and it's cuffs and a gag for you." He glared at her meaningfully.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously and the temperature dropped in the room by about ten degrees, but she kept her evil thoughts to herself, much to Dean's relief.

"She's right. The best way would be to fly," Sam offered, unable to resist poking his brother even more.

"Hello!" Dean sassed back, throwing his arms into the air in frustration. "If you thought driving over the border would be a pain in the ass, could you imagine trying to get through airport security? We would be pinched before we even walked into the joint."

"Not if you were boarding a private jet." Delilah's words were cool, and Dean fought the urge to hunch his shoulders. Yeah, he was _so _going to be paying for his little jibe later.

"Yeah, cause we got a plenty of money to rent one of those." Dean dismissed her and hopefully her resentful attitude (_uh, doubtful_), returning his attention back to the original question. Doing so, he completely missed the strained expression on Delilah's face that was quickly hidden away.

"Why do you want to go to Mexico, little brother?"

Sam dropped his eyes, glancing over to Delilah who was still sitting on the opposite bed, completely mystified. Dean easily read his brother's silent communication. Sam and his freaking weirdo visions, _again._

"Is this going to be another wild goose chase? Cause, dammit Sam, this isn't like hopping one state over."

Sam kept his eyes lowered beneath Dean's glare, shrugging. Dean's lips twisted into a sneer, and his growl of frustration echoed through the room. Delilah shivered inconspicuously on the bed.

"Sam," Dean's tone was low in warning.

"I don't know, Dean." Sam snapped back, meeting his brother's glare head on. "I don't know, but we have to go. It's important."

"Important, how?"

Sam quickly glanced at Delilah before looking back at Dean. "I can't say. Just believe me."

Dean's sigh sounded like a strangled groan, and he swept his hand through his spiky hair.

"Fine. But you and I are having a conversation later. Let's get packed. We'll figure this out on the road."

Dean and Delilah packed the car, while Sam struggled to dress himself. He stumbled into the bathroom, pushing Dean away when he tried to help. For a minute he thought he saw Madison's reflection in the mirror, but when he turned to look she was gone. Loneliness burst through his chest, and his grip on the sink tightened until his knuckles turned white.

He stared at himself in the mirror, looking for a hint of yellow in his eyes, and seeing nothing but blue-green.


	9. Chapter Eight

Thanks to Starliteyes17 for taking the time to beta this monster for me! You should check out her stories. Faults is especially good.

Wayward Son

Chapter Eight

They were roaring down I-70 towards Topeka with the windows rolled down and the stereo blaring full blast. Sam was in the backseat propped up against the door, his long legs stretched out, a happy grin on his face. Delilah was in the passenger seat, her shoes kicked off and her feet hanging out the window, her long hair streaming behind her.

Somehow she had managed to convince Dean to eject his heavy metal tapes and they were listening to the radio where Lovefool by the Cardigans was playing. Both she and Sam were belting out the lyrics at the top of their lungs while Dean hunched down in his seat, trying to escape the god-awful caterwauling.

Finally after the second chorus of _love me, love me, say that you love me_, Dean smacked his hand over the on/off button.

"Hey! We were singing to that."

"Yeah, Dean. We were singing."

Dean glared at his brother in the rearview who was smirking knowingly at him from the backseat. The little fuckshit was pissing him off on purpose, knowing full-well that with Delilah around he could get away with it that much easier. Little brothers were the same everywhere, and no matter how old they got, they never grew up. Dean half expected Sam to start singing the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song any second now.

"Dammit, Delilah, I can't take it anymore. Hand me my Metallica tape."

Delilah's face pulled into a fantastic pout that would do any two year-old proud. If it wasn't for the laughter in her warm eyes he would have thought she was serious. She was teasing him. What she didn't know was that he hated to be teased.

"I don't _think_ so." She replied in a sing-song voice.

Dean's green eyes narrowed and his hands tightened on the wheel. He was more than happy to go along with their singing, but not to some chick band wailing about being loved by some dipshit man.

She reached out to turn the radio back on, and he slapped her hand away.

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts their cakehole," he snapped, leaning to the side to reach for the tapes at her feet. She smacked him upside the head, and he whipped up to glare at her.

"Watch the road!"

"Dude, hand me my tape."

"We listened to Metallica all the way to Kansas!" she wailed.

Behind him, he could hear Sam laughing so hard that he was wheezing. Delilah turned around to examine him cautiously, knowing that his cracked ribs must be sore. Dean took the opportunity to reach for the tapes again, but she was quicker and kicked them out of the way.

"Dammit!"

He wrenched the wheel to the side, and the car skid along the gravel on the side of the road. Delilah's face went white and she slapped her hand onto the dashboard, bracing herself as the car came to a halt.

Dean slammed the car into park and reached between Delilah's legs for his tapes. She jerked her knee up, blocking him.

"Give them to me," Dean was getting pissed now, and Delilah was matching him every step of the way. Their friendly little tease fest was about to turn into a full-blown brawl.

"No," she snapped, jerking her knee up again, nearly smacking him in the mouth. Sam stopped laughing in the backseat, and he sat up straighter, wondering if he should interfere.

"That's it!" Dean sat up, glaring furiously at the woman in the front seat. "We don't need you anymore. Sam's better. You're getting out in Topeka."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Dean wished he could shove them back in with both fists. Delilah's lips that had been parted as she struggled with him compressed into a thin line. All the laughter mixed with the beginnings of anger in her eyes melted away until there was nothing but hurt left. Without a word, she opened the door, exited the Impala and walked away.

"Jesus Christ, Dean. You're just a walking, talking dumbass, aren't you?" Sam spat in annoyance, and Dean couldn't even find the will to glare at him. Fuck, if his genius brother wasn't right anyways.

Dean shut the car off and climbed out. It was a bright, spring day, and Dean couldn't help but to think that this would be one of the last he would ever see. He took a moment to look around, thankful that the road was quiet where they had stopped. Delilah had walked out into a field of knee-high grass to a wooden post fence that was weathered and gray with age. She was seated on the highest rung, looking out across the green field that was dotted with yellow and purple flowers.

Dean walked up behind her, turning so he was facing the Impala, and propped his hips up against the fence. He crossed his ankles and arms, knowing that was the best way to keep himself still long enough to say his peace. He tipped his chin to his chest, watching as the grass waved around his jean-clad legs.

"I've never seen beauty like this before. I mean, I've summered in the Hamptons, but it all seems man-made up there. This is simple. Natural."

Delilah's tone was soft and inflective. It made Dean feel a little nervous. Whenever she spoke like that, it meant she was thinking about her past. And that was something he liked her to do as little of as possible. Her past made her sad, and that made him uncomfortable. Dean cleared his throat, glaring so hard at the grass that he thought for sure that it was going to burst into flames.

"I didn't mean what I said."

Delilah sighed softly, the sound of it almost lost in the subtle breeze.

"But it's true. Sam is better. You don't need me anymore. There is no reason for me to stay."

Dean hunched his shoulders and he felt like he could crumple in on himself. He wished Sam would drag his lazy ass out of the car. He was so much better at this chick flick stuff than he was. Besides, he wasn't brave enough to say what he really felt. Feelings were to be kept inside under lock and key. They sure as hell weren't meant to be talked about.

"You know, Sam and I wouldn't mind if you wanted to stick around."

Delilah didn't answer, and the silence between them stretched on for an eternity. Finally, Dean couldn't handle it anymore and he spoke again.

"Delilah. You want to stay, don't you?"

Dean wanted to kick himself. He sounded like a motherless little boy looking for attention from any woman that came along. He wasn't that way. He didn't look at Delilah like that. He just wanted her to stay. He wanted to be around her.

"You know, I was born into a very upstanding family. I was named after my grandmother, the matriarch of the family. My mother said that she had royal blood, born on the wrong side of the sheets to some Duke or some ridiculous thing. I don't know."

Dean fought the urge to scratch his head. Women, he decided, were just demented. He had no idea what the hell she was talking about or why it was important at all.

"Do you want me to stay?"

The question came out of nowhere and sucker punched him right in the gut. Maybe that was the point of her earlier musings, to confuse him so she could catch him off guard. He took a deep breath, steadying his pounding heart. Why did he suddenly feel like he was deciding the fate of the rest of his life? His very short, life. He was instantly struck with the urge to reach out and grab life by both hands. To grab on and never let go. To run hard and fast as far as he could until the crossroads bitch was eating his dust.

"Yes."

The breeze picked up and a lose tendril of her hair brushed against his cheek. The muscles in his face twitched, but the rest of him was rock still. He even stopped breathing as he waited for what she was going to stay.

"Then I want to stay."

Dean's breath shuddered out of him, but it was just as quickly cut off as she continued.

"Except. I don't want to stay as Delilah. Delilah has to be perfect. She has to wear perfect clothes, and have perfect hair. She has to have a successful practice and never make any mistakes. She has to marry a prominent man and never do anything to embarrass the family. Delilah has to go home to Manhattan and not run around the country side with two handsome brothers."

Slowly, Dean turned to face her. She was still sitting on the fence, her back towards him, but he could see her beautiful profile as she lifted her face to the warm sun.

"Who would you like to be, then?"

"Lilah. Lilah gets to wear cut-off shorts and flip flops. Lilah gets to sing at the top of her lungs and hang her feet out the car window. She gets to sleep in the same bed with a very dangerous man who takes away all of her bad dreams. She gets to see the all the beauty and wonder of the countryside."

Dean felt something foreign and wonderful clench inside his chest at her words. It shimmered all the way up his spine and nestled itself deep in his heart. His full lips stretched themselves in a self-satisfied grin that was nowhere near cocky as he looked up at her while she sat on her perch.

"Sounds like my kind of girl."

Lilah threw back her head and laughed, raising her arms up into the air in celebration. Without fear she slid backwards off the fence, and Dean caught her easily in the cradle of his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her laughter and bright whiskey eyes intoxicating his soul. He smiled down at her, twirling in the field of grass as she kicked out her bare feet.

She tipped her face up towards his, and unable to help himself he lowered his lips to hers. It was a soft, simple kiss that wasn't hungry or demanding. It wasn't a kiss that he had ever shared with a waitress or a barmaid. It was a kiss just for Lilah and only her.

When they parted she was breathless and her eyes were twinkling. His smile then turned cocky, and she slugged him in the shoulder for his insolence. He laughed, something he so rarely did anymore and carried her back to the car. He opened the passenger door, waiting for her to slide inside. He circled around the back, his eyes meeting Sam's, who stared at him from the window.

Sam leered in his little brother way, and Dean snarled at him in warning. He knew that it would do no good anyways. Sam, undoubtedly would milk it for all its worth. _The bitch_.

Dean climbed into the car, still glaring at his brother in the rearview when Lilah spoke.

"I can help you guys get to Mexico."

Dean paused in the act of starting the car, and Sam's gaze sharpened on the back of her head.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked before Dean could gather himself.

"I can charter a jet. I can reserve it under Delilah Green and guests. Security will secure it before we board, but since it's a private plane we can bypass the check in. You'll need passports of course, but I'm sure you can swing it."

Sam sat up straighter at her words, but something flashed across Dean's hazel eyes. He reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"I thought Delilah was getting left behind."

Sam frowned at that, and shot a look at his brother. That seemed like an awfully weird thing to say, especially since it seemed like they had kissed and made-up. Literally.

"She is. But she can help us with this one thing."

She reached for his cell phone that he had tossed onto the dashboard earlier. Dean wrapped his strong, calloused fingers around her delicate wrist, stopping her.

"That's not necessary, Lilah. We'll find another way."

"Dean," Sam said sharply, and Dean shot him a glare.

"Sam," he replied just as sharply. Lilah frowned at them both, knowing that she was missing something.

"Dean is afraid to fly." Sam filled her in.

"Dude!" Dean barked at his brother. _Freaking traitor_.

Lilah rested her other hand on Dean's wrist, her fingers patting him comfortingly.

"Do you guys really need to get to Mexico?"

"Yes," Sam cut in sharply meeting Dean's glare with his own desperate look.

Lilah watched as the two brothers communicated wordlessly. Whatever Dean saw in Sam's eyes seemed to convince him, and he sighed deeply. Seeing that he had given in, she gently removed Dean's grip from her wrist.

"Then let me help you. Where is the nearest international airport?"

"Kansas City." Sam offered, his eyes still locked onto the back of his brother's head.

"Then we should head there." She flipped open the phone and began to dial.

Seeing that he had been overruled, Dean started the car and flipped it around to head in the opposite direction. They rolled up the windows so Delilah could hear without the whipping wind in her ear and from the passenger seat she asked to speak to someone named Roland Goldman.

"Hello, Roland. It's Delilah."

There was a pause before she cut off whoever was speaking.

"No, no. I'm fine. There is nothing to worry about. I just decided to go on a little trip."

Her lips curled into a small smile as she listened to the speaker on the other end of the line.

"Not telling my mother was the whole point, Roland. She needs to learn that I'm not going to jump when she snaps an order."

Dean met Sam's eyes in the rearview, briefly sharing a memory of their dad, before looking away.

"Listen, I need a favor, and I would really appreciate it if you didn't tell my mother."

The man was speaking again, and Lilah's lips turned downward in a frown. A frosty expression crossed over her face that Dean had never seen before.

"Remember Roland, you are employed by me, not my mother. Everything is mine. She lives so well off by my grace, not the other way around."

Dean shot her a startled look, but she ignored him. She stared down into her lap instead, her fingers toying with the white fringe of her shorts.

"I need to charter a jet out of---." Her words trailed off, and she looked up at Dean for confirmation. He was too stunned at her change in demeanor to answer immediately so Sam chimed in.

"The Kansas City International Airport."

"Kansas City International Airport," she finished.

She listened to the man, nodding to herself as he spoke.

"Mexico. Tomorrow morning will be fine. I need some pocket change too."

Dean had gone back to looking at the road in front of him, but at her words he glanced at her again. She hunched down into her seat, and began looking very uncomfortable. She refused to meet Dean's questioning gaze again.

"I don't know. Twenty thousand, I guess."

Dean's foot slipped off the gas, and the Impala began to slow noticeably on the interstate. Behind them a semi roared closer, and Sam got an up close and personal look at its chrome grill.

"Dude!" he shouted and Dean jerked out of his shock. He hit the gas and the Impala burst forward.

Lilah finished up some details on the phone, but Dean had stopped listening. Somewhere along the way he had gotten the pretty solid idea that Delilah was from way on the other side of the tracks, but he hadn't realized just how far. He had never come across anyone who thought twenty thousand dollars was just pocket change. His entire life had been spent hustling pool and working crap-ass jobs just to put food in his little brother's gargantuan stomach. He couldn't imagine being so well off. Then again, he couldn't imagine Delilah not being well taken care of either. In fact, he was having a hard time imagining her in his life at all, even though she was right beside him.

She hung up the phone, and there was silence except for the road traffic around them.

"Delilah---" Dean started, but she quickly cut him off, her wide whiskey eyes looking at him full of trepidation and need. She was afraid that _he_ was going to reject _her_. Well of all the fucked up things in life, wasn't that the kicker.

"Lilah, remember. I'm Lilah, now."

He met her gaze for endless seconds before he dipped his head in acceptance. Her lips curled up into a small smile and her eyes regained a bit of their life.

"I'm going to need a picture ID since I seemed to have lost my purse somewhere."

In the backseat Sam snorted and Dean chuckled.

"Leave it to me, honey. I've got the magic touch. With me around you can be anyone at anytime."

The cocky grin he threw her way spoke volumes and her small smile grew into an outright satisfied grin. The shimmer that he had felt in his chest earlier grew until it seemed to encompass his entire body with a shivery light. He glanced back at the road ahead of him, and didn't argue when Lilah flipped on the radio. Behind him, Sam rolled down the windows, singing along to Radiohead, and for the first time in his life Dean felt like he was complete. His car, his brother, and a beautiful woman. What more did he need?

He shook off the dark feeling of hopelessness that was spreading through his gut, knowing that he had only one life to live and it was quickly drawing to a close.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Wayward Son**

Chapter Nine

They arrived in Kansas City hours later and found a cheap motel by the bank Lilah would need to visit in the morning. Dean needed a picture of her to create a new I.D., so he had her sit on the hood of the Impala. The sun was setting behind her, and the fiery orange light glinted off her windblown hair.

Sam stood behind Dean, singing a tune under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, _Dean and Lilah sitting on the Impala, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. _Lilah was laughing, her bright whiskey-colored eyes sparkling, and Dean was trying his best not to smile as the warm feeling in his chest grew. He snapped a picture off with his digital camera used for just these occasions. Lilah insisted on seeing the picture, wanting to give her stamp of approval before it was pasted on an I.D. that she was going to have to show people.

Dean showed her the LCD display and she nodded in acceptance, before slugging Sam in the arm when he called her a Gorgon while tugging on a loose curl of hair. Dean ignored them, and continued to stare at the picture. The sky behind her was painted in hues of pink and red, accenting the bright flush of happiness on Lilah's cheeks. She was radiating joy, and Dean couldn't think of a single time in his life when he had ever felt so complete. Never had a woman looked at him the way Lilah did. She glanced back at him as she ducked into their room, half-heartedly running from Sam who was limping behind her, growling like a bear.

"I have to go get your I.D. You guys want me to bring back dinner?"

Sam made it to the door, slightly winded, and Lilah murmured to him while rubbing a comforting hand down his back. Suddenly, Dean's felt heart-sore. Sam cast a bemused glance at her that she didn't notice, but Dean knew what he was thinking. She wasn't hitting on his little brother. She was soothing him like a mother would a sick child. All the unfairness of their life seemed to cascade back down onto Dean until he felt the urge to bow his shoulders with the weight of it all. Sam should have never gone through life never knowing the caress of a mother. He should never have to look suspiciously at a woman, because she touched him innocently.

"Okay," she called back to Dean, still smiling. "Do you think we can have some pasta for dinner? I'm craving penne."

"Sure, that shouldn't be a problem. Sam?"

"Meat raviolis?" It was a request and a question at the same time. They both glanced at Lilah for confirmation, and she nodded in approval. Sam released a breath, and Dean chuckled in response. Sam was a growing boy who needed his carbohydrates and protein in the form of tomato slathered meat.

They shuffled into the room, Lilah turning back to wave at Dean from the door. He smiled and waved back, unable to shake the dual feelings of happiness and sadness that nested inside his heart.

The door clicked closed and Lilah watched with a practiced physician's eye as Sam tentatively lay back onto the bed farthest from the door. Their horseplay in the parking lot had been draining, but good for him. He had color in his cheeks, and he was able to stretch out his long legs after so many days of inactivity. For now though, he needed to take it easy.

She dug through their supplies, finding the first aid kit and set it on the nightstand between the beds. Knowing what she wanted, Sam pulled his shirt off, grimacing as a sharp, biting pain wrapped around his ribs when he lifted his arms. Lilah helped him pull his tee over his head, and tossed the shirt aside.

She changed his bandage, noting that the wound was healing well. She fingered his ribs, trying not to wince in sympathy when Sam did. Her examination done, she gently brushed her fingers over a pair of white scars that slashed across his washboard stomach. Sam stilled under her touch, and her eyes darted up to his. He watched her with hooded-eyes, waiting for her to say something.

"What happened?"

Sam stared at her hard, his heavy gaze considering. When Jess had asked him the same question he told her it was a car accident. Not telling Jess about his life, the family business, was one of the biggest regrets of his life. She had died never truly understanding the man that she loved. Sam had lost her, never knowing if she loved the man that he was or who he pretended to be. Dean should be the one to have this conversation with Lilah, but it seemed a little late. The cat was already out of the bag so to speak.

"A bugbear."

A finely arched brow curved higher.

"Excuse me?"

"A bugbear. It's kind of a bear man."

"Oh." Lilah looked away, her brows pinched together. Sam exhaled lightly. Maybe he should have worked her into it a little bit more. Ghosts were one thing; mythical creatures cavorting through not-so-enchanted forests were completely different.

"You have a lot of scars." Her gaze cut up his body before skittering away again. It was Sam's turn to raise a brow. "Were any of them caused by, you know, normal means?"

Sam stared at her for a while, trying to figure her out. He wondered if she was trying to measure his insanity by the amount of scars that he had.

"Well, I got this in a knife fight outside a honky-tonk in Missouri."

He held out his arm, and Lilah could see a thin white scar that sliced across his upper arm from his shoulder to his elbow. It looked like it had been a pretty vicious cut.

"Did the guy go to jail?"

Sam huffed out a laugh, and Lilah narrowed her eyes, uncertain why he would think that question would be funny.

"Uh, no. We don't go looking for the cops if at all possible."

"So he got away with hurting you?"

"No. Dean took the guy and his two buddies out behind the bar and beat the crap out of them for touching his little brother. I tried to help after I wrapped myself up, but Dean wouldn't let me. He was too pissed. I was only sixteen at the time and just had a growth spurt. That's why I got cut in the first place. I was still growing into my arms and legs, and the guy caught me off guard."

Lilah stared at him, appalled. She didn't know what was more horrifying: that sixteen year-old Sam had thought that it was perfectly acceptable to be in a bar brawl, or that he had to bandage himself up as quickly as possible so he could help out his big brother who was going three on one with a bunch of drunken guys.

Sam caught the distressed look in Lilah's eyes and he picked up his shirt to shrug back on. Lilah snapped out of her daze long enough to help him, still mulling over his words.

"So does Dean have a lot of scars too?"

"Heh, oh yeah. More than me."

Sam smiled at Lilah, but his grin was quickly wiped away by her frown.

"I'm surprised you guys are still alive," Lilah muttered. Sam's expression turned miserable and he wasn't able to look her in the eye. He glanced away, staring steadily at the corner. Lilah watched him, her eyes heavy with questions.

"Where is Dean going in three months?"

Sam shrugged, but didn't respond. Lilah sighed loudly and refused to budge from her seat beside him.

"Sam." Her tone was demanding enough that Sam glanced at her.

"Look, Lilah. That's a question that you are going to have to ask Dean."

"He's not the most forthcoming person, I've noticed."

"Yeah, well. It's his job to take care of me and the best way for him to do that is to keep his mouth shut." Sam sounded bitter, but she couldn't place why. It sounded odd that a twenty-four year-old man would still be relying on his big brother to take care of him, but then again, nothing about their life seemed normal.

"What's in Mexico that's so important?"

Sam met Lilah's direct gaze and didn't look away. Finally he smiled, his dimples appearing slowly.

"The tequila train."

Lilah's brow lifted in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

"The tequila train. Dean's always wanted to ride on it." And the fact that Dean was running out of time was unspoken, but heard loud and clear in the room.

"I see," said Lilah, but she didn't, not really. Both Sam and Dean were hiding things from her, but she couldn't really blame them. She was no one to them. Nothing more than a third wheel.

Lilah moved away from Sam, and felt her sadness return with every step that she took.

8888

Dean returned later that evening with a shiny new I.D. for Lilah and take-out from a local Italian joint. The three of them sat around the small round table, eating gustily and laughing. Lilah had convinced them to tell her stories of their past adventures, and Dean was happy to comply with a great deal of hand waving and exaggerations.

Sam watched his brother from the corner of his eyes, noting the careful way that Dean skirted around the bad, stomach eviscerating portions of the stories and only told the funny parts. Sam followed his big brother's lead, and soon Delilah was doubled over in stitches as Dean described in detail how long it took to get the smell of swamp rot out of Sam's hair after he had fallen into a marsh when he was thirteen.

Lilah was wiping the tears from her eyes, and Dean smiled at her from behind his beer as he took a swig. It was at that moment that a painful mix of emotions jolted Sam in his seat. Dean was happy, truly happy, for maybe the first time in his life. Sam felt something close to elation deep in his chest. If Sam could save Dean from his deal, then his brother could have this. He could have a woman who laughed at his off-color jokes. Maybe he could even have a home and a family with her.

Along with the happiness there was a distant pang of longing and jealousy. It had been Sam and Dean for so long now. If, (_when_) Sam saved Dean, then there was a good chance that he would lose him. He couldn't go on forever being a third wheel in their home. He would have to grow-up and strike out on his own. He tried not to feel resentment at that thought, but he couldn't help it.

He took a swig of the one and only beer that Lilah said he could have, hiding his ghost of a smile behind the amber glass as Dean cracked another joke to see her laugh.

8888

Lilah sunk into bed, feeling safe and warm in the cocoon of Dean's arms. He wrapped himself around her, nuzzling her hair and inhaling her scent deeply. It was the small things that he did that simultaneously made her feel threatened and protected. The predator in him imprinted her scent on his psyche, remembering her singular smell for a future hunt, while the man in him rejoiced in her blatant femininity.

She was struck by his dualism. It was obvious in his every action, from the easy grace when he crossed a room to the way he stood between her and the door that he was a man constantly on the prowl, alert for any aggression against them. But the careful way he handled his injured brother, and how he smiled made her think that when he loved he did so with his entire heart. A woman would be lucky to be his lady, criminal tendencies not withstanding.

His arm curled around her waist, the crook of his elbow settling in the dip above her hip, his large hand splayed across her belly. She sighed deeply, instinctively snuggling back until their bodies were molded together from shoulder to heel. The room was dark, and the steady, rhythmic passing of traffic lulled her into a trance of half-awareness, half-sleep.

Dean shifted, and she felt warm, calloused skin slip under the hem of her nightshirt and slide over her midriff. Her eyes shot open as Dean settled his hand over her bare stomach beneath her shirt. The first thing she noticed was the dark lump in the other bed, as Sam slept silently no more than two feet away.

Dean's hand slid up her stomach, his fingers brushing the underside of her unbound breasts that were suddenly achingly full. His lips danced across the curve of her neck and shoulder, as he showered her with small, feathery kisses. Her entire body stiffened, and her mind reeled with sensations. His touch lit small bonfires of anticipation across hotspots under her skin, but the knowledge that his brother was so close was like being doused with ice water.

"Stop," she hissed between clenched teeth, her hand clamping down over his.

Dean stilled at her demand, his warm breath misting on her pulse just beneath her ear.

"I'm not asking for anything in return. I just want to touch you."

His husky whisper thrilled all the way down her spine, and she almost loosened her grasp on his hand. She hadn't realized until that moment how much she wanted him to touch her, to slide his hands down her body, and kiss her until her head spun with the lack of oxygen.

"No, it's not right."

Her words caused her physical pain right at the very base of her stomach. She could feel her muscles contract around nothing, and the overwhelming urge to fill the emptiness that was aching inside her.

Dean recoiled as if she had struck him. He quickly untangled himself from her, standing up briskly in the dark room. She rolled over, squinting her eyes so she could make out his darker form in the shadows.

"Dammit, Lilah." She heard him take a shaky breath, and she could see him rub his hand through his short hair.

"I'm sorry, but---"

"Look, I get it, okay?" Dean cut her off, leaning down to swipe up his pants from the floor. She could hear the anger in is voice, but he kept his tone just above a fierce whisper.

"Dean, it's not what you think," she whispered back, just as fiercely.

"No. I get it. You don't trust me. You think I'm a criminal, and you're not the kind of girl that gets off on bad guys. I get it, I do. But, Lilah, I can't keep sleeping beside you like this. Smelling you, feeling you." He thrust his feet into his boots, and grabbed his keys up off the table.

"I haven't abstained this long since I was sixteen." He stalked over to the door and Lilah tracked him with wide eyes.

"Where are you going?" she cried, almost forgetting to keep her voice down. She was sitting up in bed now, the blankets clutched to her chest protectively. She couldn't quite place all the feelings that were roiling in her stomach. She was fairly certain that the idea of him going to a bar to have his needs met made her sad and unreasonably panicked.

Dean paused for a long moment at the door, seemingly weighing his options. Finally, he sighed deeply, leaning forward until his head rested against the thin wooden panel.

"I'm going to sleep in the car." He straightened, pulling open the door with smooth, easy grace.

"Dean," she called, but he was already stepping over the threshold.

"Night, Lilah," he said softly, closing the door behind him.

She slumped down in the bed, her heart constricting in her chest. For the first time since she met Dean her sadness nearly overwhelmed her. She buried herself in the covers, turning over so she wouldn't wake his brother.

From beneath veiled lashes, Sam watched as Lilah cried herself to sleep.


	11. Chapter Ten

Thanks to starliteyes for looking this over for me.

**Wayward Son**

Chapter Ten

The next day no one said much. Dean was making a concerted effort not to look at Lilah, and she was doing everything she could besides outright yelling at him to get his attention. Sam wisely stayed in the background, not wanting to intrude on their intimate spat.

They drove her to the bank as soon as it opened, waiting outside while she collected her funds. As soon as she was done, they made their way to the airport where a private jet was waiting for them. Dean's anger faded into the background as he fidgeted nervously on the tarmac, waiting for Lilah to confer with the pilot. He couldn't decide if he was more nervous airport security would recognize them from flyers the F.B.I were sure to have sent out, or if it was the thought of being suspended three miles above the earth made him want to vomit instead. The last time he had ridden in a plane it was destined to crash forty minutes into the flight. The nose dive it took while Sam exorcised the demon was not something he wanted to relive—ever.

"Okay, we are all set."

Lilah's brown eyes cut over to Dean, and the frosty expression she had been wearing since they awoke melted from her face.

"Are you okay, Dean?"

She walked over to him, placing a concerned hand on his arm. He shook her off, looking everywhere but at her.

"Fine. Let's do this."

Sam glanced at his brother, noting the pallor of his skin and the clammy sweat clinging to his brow. Bravely Dean entered the plane first, followed by a frowning Lilah. Sam sighed heavily, knowing that it was going to be a long trip.

They settled themselves into the plush seats that were arranged den style so they could face each other and talk during the flight. A pretty stewardess clucked over Dean, never seeing the glare that Lilah threw her way. Dean ignored them both while he fastidiously fastened his seat belt.

"Here."

Lilah stood over him, her tone unfriendly. Dean glanced up, seeing small blue pills in her outstretched hand.

"What's that?"

"Valium. I ordered it for you yesterday." She grabbed the crystal cut glass of brandy from the stewardess Dean had ordered, offering it to him. "Drink up. Doctor's orders."

Dean eyed the pills, before taking them from her with a sigh. Sam relaxed as he watched Dean swallowed the pills, relieved his brother wouldn't be uptight for the entire trip.

The flight was much shorter than either brother expected. The private jet was far faster than a commercial airliner, and the muscle relaxers did their trick on Dean. Normally he would have been an irritable mass of grumpiness, bent on destroying everyone else's piece of mind; instead he lounged in his chair, barely speaking for the entire flight.

Once they landed, Lilah was treated to another surprise. Both brothers spoke Spanish fluently with enough of an accent to be clear that they hadn't learned their skills in a classroom. Lilah shot a questioning glance at Dean, but he ignored her as he took control of their arrangements. Within minutes they had their baggage collected and were on the curb hailing a cab.

As they waited, a flash of color caught Dean's eye. He turned his head to stare at a young boy no more than ten. He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing a pair of bright yellow slacks that hung loose on his narrow hips. His black hair brushed over his forehead, drawing Dean's gaze to the boy's unusual gray eyes.

"Don't turn your back on the black cat," the boy muttered in Spanish before disappearing into the crowd. Dean rose to his tip toes, trying to see over the crowd, but the boy was gone and Lilah was calling his name. He turned around to see an orange cab had pulled up and the driver was loading their luggage into the trunk.

"Where to?" Dean directed his question towards his brother, knowing that their trip wasn't for pleasure like they told customs.

"Panteon de Belen," Sam replied without looking his brother in the eye. Dean arched a brow, but didn't miss a beat. He directed the cabbie to drive them to a cheap motel near the famous graveyard.

As he slid into the cab, Dean cast one last glance at the crowd, looking for a bright flash of yellow. There had been something about the boy that made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand on end. Gray eyes weren't all that common, and Dean had seen three people in the last week with the exact shade. Normally he wouldn't notice something like that, but when they appeared on a black woman and a Mexican kid, he stood up and paid attention. The cab pulled away from the curb, and plunged into a tangle of traffic that had all three passengers praying for clemency.

It took them nearly an hour to wind their way into downtown Guadalajara, near the Panteon de Belen. They found a cheap motel that was just a strip of rooms attached to a dingy cantina. Lilah frowned as she exited the cab, but Dean was in full dick mode, determined not to change his usual routine in any way just to accommodate her. If she wanted to tag along then she had to go where they went. If she wanted to be an uptight bitch who was too good for the likes of him, then that was her problem.

They piled into the office, Dean striding up to the desk with a furious frown on his face. He couldn't seem to sort out who he was maddest at: Lilah for rejecting him, or himself for reacting to it. The Valium was obviously wearing off, because the tension was back full force in his neck and jaw.

He was ordering one room with two beds when Lilah stepped up next to him. The shudder of awareness that skittered down his spine was instantaneous. He could smell the soft lilac scent of her lotion on her skin and feel the heat of her body next to his. He wanted to shift his weight and settle his arm around her shoulders to make room for her at his side. The urge to do so was almost instinctual, and it made him even angrier.

"Dos," she told the receptionist softly, holding her fingers up in a vee.

Dean stopped what he was doing and tilted his head down to look at her.

"What?"

She looked up, meeting his hard green gaze straight on. Her whiskey colored eyes had darkened to a deep umber, and had none of their usual sparkle. Her full lips were compressed into a tight line and when she spoke the words were bit out from behind straight white teeth.

"Dos. Tell him two rooms."

Dean's square cut jaw clenched and a muscle jumped in his cheek. He hadn't shaved that morning, and the dark hair on his cheeks made his face look almost feral. His eyes turned to chips of stone, and his thick lashes swept down to hide his hurt before he turned away without a word. He ordered a second room, ignoring the wad of cash that Lilah thrust his way, choosing to spend the last of his money instead of accepting hers.

Sam stood at the back of the room wondering if it was possible to actually fade into the stripped blue and white wallpaper. It seemed like he was doing a lot of that lately; trying to make himself smaller so his big brother didn't notice him. The more Dean concentrated on Lilah, the more freedom he had to put his plan in motion. The days were ticking by, and three months was melting into two before Dean would be pulled into Hell.

He hoped that Dean would repair his tenuous relationship with Lilah soon, lest he turn his brotherly attention to him. As desperately as Sam wanted to spend time with his brother, he refused to believe that he wouldn't have a chance to do so after the deadline was up. If he could just pull this together, find another soul to swap with Dean's, then just maybe they both could have a real chance at Happily Ever After.

Dean spun on his heel, stomping out of the room. Sam followed tentatively after him, casting a regretful glance at Lilah who was left to carry her own bag to her room.

Dean was eager to drown himself at the cantina, but not before he weaseled some details from Sam. There was something at the cemetery the Powers That Be were interested in. Sam refused to give any information other than that no matter how intensely Dean hounded him, which given his foul mood was pretty serious. They decided the easiest way to gain entrance to the walled cemetery was by infiltrating a tour group, then loosing themselves among the crumbling mausoleums. The last hour long tour was at midnight, giving them plenty of time to collect their treasure and get out.

Once that was settled, Dean disappeared for the cantina. He knew that his brother was hiding something important, but Dean couldn't seem to get his head in the game. Every time he cornered Sam, a random memory of Lilah would make him lose track of his thoughts. He wasn't happy about the situation he was in. His brother was lying to him, the woman he desperately wanted was shunning him, and he was in a foreign country. The only good thing so far was the tequila. He ordered another shot, and stared at his ragged image in the mirror above the bar.

8888

"Wanna talk about it?" Sam asked while staring at the back of his brother's head.

"No."

They were standing in line, waiting for entrance to the cemetery. Dean had decided, despite Lilah's protests, that Sam was healthy enough to join him on the hunt. They didn't expect trouble beyond not getting caught, and it was high time Sam got used to standing on his own two feet again.

The throng of people were mostly American tourists and a few local teenagers looking for a good scare by going on the midnight tour in the supposedly haunted graveyard. The people chattered nervously, and a couple of young boys were horsing around by the thick, ivy-covered walls. A tour guide appeared at the head of the group, speaking a mix of Spanish and English as he led them inside the wrought iron gates. Wordlessly the brothers drifted to the back of the crowd, following along until they reached their destination.

"How long are you going to pout for?"

"I don't pout, Sam. That's all you," Dean bit out without looking at his brother. Sam sighed deeply, and Dean hunched his shoulders against the sound.

"I think you're going about this all wrong."

"Well, there's a shock. You bitching about how I do things." Dean shot Sam a scathing look, shoving his fists deep into his jean pockets. The air was warm and thick with humidity. From the west a cloud bank was rolling in, promising a spring thunder storm in a few short hours.

"You never know, Dean. You might benefit from my advice just this once." Sam fought the urge to stick out his tongue at Dean's back. His brother could be so childish sometimes that it elicited the same irrational urge from Sam.

"Yah, cause you know your way around women."

An overweight white guy, herding two teenage daughters glanced back at them, the thick skin on his brow set into rolls. Dean sneered back at him, daring him without words to start something. The man's jowls trembled and he ushered his daughters deeper into the crowd.

"As a matter of fact, I do. I have been in a relationship for longer than one drunken night."

"Dude, so have I," Dean shot back.

"Yeah, Cassie. Look how that turned out."

Dean didn't reply, just stared at the tour guide as he rambled on about the numerous haunts in the cemetery throughout the years. They followed along for a few moments, and Sam thought the conversation had been dropped.

"It's just, that---I never know what's going on in her head. One minute she's all cuddly and the next she doesn't want anything to do with me. She's just so—Fuck, I don't know, Sam."

"Persnickety."

Dean wheeled around to face his brother, his face drawn into a mask of confused disgust.

"Dude, what are you eighty? Who talks like that? What did they teach you at that ass backwards school of yours?"

Sam rolled his eyes and kept walking, body-checking Dean on the way. Dean easily let himself be knocked off the cobbled path, conscious of Sam's cracked ribs, and trailed after him.

"That's what Jess used to say whenever I accused her of being wishy-washy. She said it was her duty to be persnickety. That a woman's job is to keep her man on his toes."

They paused under a huge oak, their guide rambling on about the legend of the Vampire Tree as they spoke. The crowd moved on, and by unspoken agreement, the brother's melted into the shadows. As soon as the group was well out of range they emerged from the darkness to stand next to the tomb that the old tree grew out of. The marble was cracked and broken, and there was plenty of room for someone to slide their hand inside to feel around.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Sam."

Dean was staring at the tomb considering his options as he spoke. He squatted near the edge, grimly rolling up his sleeve on his over shirt.

"Look all I'm saying is that Lilah probably wasn't too keen at the thought of making out while I was lying in bed three feet away. She's not like the other women you are used to dating, Dean. She does have dignity. Probably standards too," Sam muttered the last part as he watched his brother reach into the crack, idly wondering what sort of poisonous spiders inhabited Mexico.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at his brother, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks.

"You heard that?"

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets, scrubbing the toe of his boot over the crabgrass.

"Dude. It's me. As soon as you guys moved, I woke up. I _am_ a hunter, you know."

Dean snickered, and Sam thought he heard his brother mutter the world 'barely' under his breath.

"Shut up."

Sam just _barely_ resisted the urge to kick his brother in the ass as he squatted in front of him. It would serve him right if he nose-dived into the crumbling marble.

"What am I looking for here, Sam?"

Sam shrugged, stepping closer so he could peer over his brother's shoulder.

"I think it's kinda long and thin. Made of metal. Probably has a lot of carvings on it."

"So this femur bone I got my hand wrapped around probably isn't it."

"Probably not."

Dean leaned in further until his entire arm disappeared up to the shoulder. After a minute, he grunted and withdrew from the tomb. In his hand was a golden tube about six inches long and an inch in diameter. It was intricately carved, and if Dean didn't know better he would say that it was made of solid gold.

"Score," Dean chortled, standing up to examine it in the moonlight.

Sam stood stock still next to him, his hands clenched at his sides. He knew if he tried to snatch it from his brother that Dean would know something was up. But the urge to do so was overwhelming. Combined with the blood ritual that was locked away in his brain, he would be able to free Dean from an eternity in Hell. All he needed was one last piece, and he was sure that Madison would be visiting him soon with the information he needed to save his brother.

For now he had to resist the need to run his hands up and down the carved metal cylinder. Dean was eyeing him curiously, and Sam fought to keep his face impassive.

"You know what this is for, Sam?"

"No."

"Do you know why you are having freaky visions about it?"

"No."

Sam's responses were clipped and emotionless. This was the first time Sam was having visions unrelated to the demon. Now that Old Yellow Eyes was dead, the continuation of Sam's Shining was freaking Dean out more than just a little.

He decided to ignore the little skitter of unease that raced down his spine, and stowed the tube beneath his shirt. They fell in step together, heading back to their tour group. Sam wanted to tackle Dean to the ground and snatch the tube from him, but he controlled himself. It didn't matter who held it for now, only that it was in their possession.

"She didn't have to be so mean about it."

It took a minute for Sam to backtrack and figure out what Dean was talking about. The words were so soft it could have been mistaken for Dean talking to himself. However, Sam knew better. His brother was hurt by Lilah's actions, having never been rejected by a woman before.

"Yah, she was a total bitch."

Sam meant the words to be sarcastic, but the way Dean rounded on him had him thinking that he hadn't pulled it off so well.

"She's not a bitch!" Dean grit out from behind clenched teeth, his lips pulled back into a fierce snarl. Sam jumped back, his hands raised in submission.

"Dude! I was joking. I actually think she was pretty nice about it. After all she could have jumped up screaming about what a filthy pervert you are."

Dean opened his mouth, and Sam held up a hand to dissuade him.

"You are a filthy pervert, Dean. You can't deny it."

Dean glanced at him sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders in a way meant to convey his apologies for jumping down his brother's throat. Sam took that as permission to push his point further. He grabbed Dean's arm as he was turning away, looking his brother in the eyes.

"Listen to me. You've got something special here, Dean. Don't fuck it up."

Dean's eyes flickered towards the ground, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. Sam waited in silence, knowing something was on his brother's mind.

"What's the point, Sam? I've got, what? Two months left? That's hardly fair to her."

"Two and a half," Sam corrected automatically.

Dean sighed, rolling his eyes. "You know what I'm saying."

Sam swallowed the hard lump forming in his throat. The thought of Dean dying made him sick, and it reiterated what he already knew in his heart. He had to save his brother no matter what.

"If you didn't know, would you still pursue her?"

"Are you kidding? I would totally try to tap that."

Sam fought the urge to rub the pulsing ache forming between his eyes. His brother was nothing if not an enigma--first defending Lilah's honor then objectifying her.

"She'd reject me of course, 'cause I _am _a total pig." Sam stared at Dean like he had lost his mind.

"What? I'm not completely unaware, Sam. It's just now, with my end nearing, I'm more--" Dean waved his hand in the air, looking at nothing in particular. Sam could have sworn he heard the word _girly_ come out of his brother's mouth, but he wasn't sure.

"Sensitive?"

"Whatever. All I'm saying is that I have a real chance to be with a woman who normally wouldn't look twice at me. And as totally awesome as that is, that's not why I want to get with her. I _really_ like her, Sam. What am I supposed to do about that? I'm going to die in two months, and she's going to be left with that. I can't do that to her."

Sam stared at Dean, his heart constricting in his chest. It had been a long time since Dean had been so brutally honest with him. He didn't know what to do with this new insight into his brother. He slipped his fingers into his front pockets, his eyes boring into Dean's.

"Maybe you should try being honest with her," he said softly.

Sam walked past him, merging with the crowd. Behind him, he heard Dean's grunt of acknowledgement.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**WARNING: **Some pg-13 sexual content and trite romance novel set up. What can I say, I'm a _girly-girl _at heart

Thank you to Starliteyes for looking this over for me.

**Wayward Son**

Chapter Eleven

By the time Sam and Dean returned to the motel it was close to three in the morning. They parted ways at the door, Sam entering their room while Dean headed for the cantina. It was still open, a smattering of customers tucked away in dark corners. Dean glanced at them from beneath the veil of his thick lashes, noting if they were armed or taking unusual interest of him. Seeing nothing dangerous he made his way to a low table, scooting his chair until his back faced the wall.

He immediately noticed the same bar maid had who served him earlier. She had long black hair braided into a thick plait down the center of her back, and copper skin that gleamed in the dim, smoky lighting. She was young and fresh looking, wearing a pair of cut-off shorts and a white pleasant blouse that slipped off her smooth shoulders. She weaved her way towards him, white teeth peeking out from behind red lips in a ghost of a smile. He could see a hint of interest in her dark eyes, and lust twisted in his lower stomach.

Dean knew that he should stop fooling himself. No matter what Sam said, Delilah was not the kind of woman who would want to enter into a meaningless tryst with him that would eventually lead nowhere. To Dean's way of thinking, there was no point in telling her about his deal with the demon. Firstly, she would never believe him. She was a freaking doctor. She spent more years in school than he could even count. In her world of logic and facts, demons, spirits and monsters just didn't exist.

It didn't matter she had witnessed a spirit first hand. That had just been one ghost, a lost little girl who wanted revenge for terrible things that had been done for her. Even if Delilah believed in the afterworld, there was no way she was going to extend that belief to demonology.

Secondly, it just wasn't right to do that to her. Even if he did come clean, and she didn't believe that he was a total nut job, what then? What if she wanted to enter into a full blown relationship with him? How was that even fair to her? He would be gone in two months, and she would be left to pick up the pieces. He wasn't a complete idiot. Women got emotional about things like that. All weepy with the _Lifetime_ moments and after school special sort of crap. It would be far kinder for him to sever any link they shared right now, and dump her before they became even more entangled.

Once they were back over the border, he'd drop her at the nearest pay phone where she could call for someone to pick her up. There was no reason to be dragging her across the country for the next two months, putting her in danger and playing with her emotions. As a woman, she was very fragile and he had to be sensitive to that.

The barmaid brought with her the same brand of tequila he'd been drinking earlier along with some piss poor beer. She set the drinks down on his table with a timid smile, which Dean returned to her at full wattage. Her smile brightened and she wandered off, tossing him a wink over her shoulder that spoke volumes. All he had to do was wait until closing, and he'd have a little company to keep his mind of Lilah. He ignored the sick lump in his stomach, blaming it on the bad beer he was guzzling.

The cantina closed up barely an hour later, the customers wandering out in a slow trickle. The promised spring storm eventually rolled in and every time the door opened, Dean could hear the rain hit the tin roof of the overhang on the walkway between the bar and the motel rooms. Every once in awhile there would be a crash of thunder, then a flash of lightning would illuminate the dark corners of the bar.

The last customer left, and the barmaid picked up some empty bottles off a nearby table. She cast Dean a sly, cattish look before sauntering off towards the bar. She passed an old fashion jute box on the way, and swung her hip into it just right. It stuttered to life, playing a song Dean didn't recognize, the tune low and sultry.

She dropped the bottles with a clank and turned around, lounging against the brass rail that ran the length of the scarred wooden bar. She was wearing sandals, and Dean could see that her toenails were painted bright red. His eyes traveled up her long legs, noticing how lean and athletic her muscles were. She looked like a runner. Her body was firm and tight. All sinew and long limbs covered with delicious copper skin.

Her midriff was bare, and her belly button was decorated with a single gold ring. Normally, something like that would cause Dean to salivate with the urge to tongue it, but at the moment he felt vaguely uncomfortable at the long, languorous smile she was trolling his way.

She crossed the room towards him, her hips dipping with seduction. She moved carefully, with an easy grace that was beautiful. Dean sat in his chair, his legs kicked out loosely in front of him, his knees spread in nonchalance. He looked loose-limbed and sedated, but beneath the veneer he was tight with awareness. He was ready to bolt at a moment's notice. He maintained his easy stance in an effort to calm himself--to force himself to sit when what he really wanted to do was return to his room.

He didn't want to be there with her, but he couldn't allow himself to leave either. He needed to prove to himself that he could do this. If he could follow through, then leaving Delilah once they crossed the border wouldn't be a problem. He needed to know that he could separate himself from her, deny himself what he wanted most.

She dropped down into his lap, and he automatically pulled his hands away from his thighs so she wouldn't sit on them. She straddled his legs, thrusting her crotch towards his. She wrapped her hands around the back of his chair, crushing her soft breasts to his chest until they nearly spilled out the top of her blouse. Her lips were red and shiny, and smelled like cinnamon candy. She leaned towards his mouth, her lips parting, but he jerked his face to the side. She backed up a fraction, her eyes shadowed.

"No kisses?" she asked, her voice heavily accented.

Dean merely shook his head and smiled to cover up his distaste. Some of the shadows in her dark eyes disappeared and she shrugged off his slight. She ran his hand over his shoulders and down his chest, smiling at the feel of hard muscles beneath her palm. Sinuously she slid off his lap, falling to her knees between his spread thighs. Her small hands were work-worn, but her nails were painted the same deep red as her toes.

She nimbly undid the brass button on his jeans and the razor sound of the zipper echoed loudly in the room. In the background Dean could hear music and the muffled spattering of rain, but this vision became centered on her fingers sweeping aside the cotton flap of his boxers to withdraw his half-hard flesh.

He wanted to run, but he held himself rigid. He wanted to close his eyes and imagine soft white hands instead of rough copper ones, but he wouldn't allow himself the cop out. He had to be committed one hundred percent so there would be no doubt later. He stared at the crown of her head as she bent her neck, concentrating on the silky straight flow of her hair down the center of her back. He felt her warm breath and he swelled involuntarily.

His eyes roved over the bare skin on her shoulders, taking note of how young and smooth it looked. Just above the white band of her top, hiding beneath her hair was a dark shape that he couldn't quite make out. He reached out his hand to sweep her hair to the side, feeling a shudder go through his spine as she wrapped her lips around him.

She mewed and arched into his touch as his fingertips brushed over her skin, her tongue lapping at him. On her back, just to the side of her spine was a tattoo of a panther--a painted black face with golden eyes.

Thunder cracked, and lightning made the image shimmer on her back. The sound of the door being opened distracted him, and the rain was no longer muffled. It was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat that sounded like gunfire in the middle of the night. Dean's eyes shot up to meet Delilah's horrified gaze.

Shock was etched across her pale features, and Dean's entire body stiffened. Wordlessly she spun on her heel, slamming the door to the cantina behind her with a crack. Dean shoved the girl off him, barely sparing her a muttered apology as he ran towards the door, buttoning his jeans as he went.

"Lilah, wait!"

The air was thick with rain, and just cold enough to remind him it was still spring. It pounded loudly on the tin roof, and Dean had to yell to be heard over the rattle.

Lilah was running down the walkway, dressed in a pair of loose lavender pajama bottoms and an oversized white shirt. Her hair was a loose tangle around her shoulders, and it was obvious that she had come straight from bed, searching for him---finding him.

She ignored him and kept running for her room. Dean's long strides caught up to her easily, and he grabbed her arm to swing her around. He expected her to slap him, to strike out at him in anger, but the look of defeat in her eyes was completely unexpected. The painful look was quickly hidden away behind a veneer of professionalism as she looked at him levelly, one thin brow arched in question. Her earlier shock was stowed away, and what stood before him was a doctor used to dealing with a whole range of human emotion.

"I—" Dean didn't know what to say. What he could say?

"What?" She looked at him archly, her face immobile. "You don't expect me to cry over this do you? To be angry? I have no claim on you. If you want to sleep with every female with a pulse between here and Panama, it's not my business."

Something about her tone, the snide curl to her lips, set Dean off the deep end. He shook her arm that was still clutched in his fingers, sending a ripple through her entire body. He leaned in close so there would be no mistaking his words, his lips close enough to hers to kiss.

"You're right, it's not your business. As soon as we get across the border we're dropping you off," he snarled, desperately wishing away the urge to drag her closer. She paled at his words, and the knot in his gut tightened painfully.

"So, what? This is your way showing me that you don't want me? I'm I not pretty enough for you? Slutty enough?"

"I would rather fuck you. I'd fuck you every night between now and---"

Stricken, he cut himself off, not wanting to reveal how little time he had left. He reminded himself that it wouldn't be fair to Delilah to use his situation against her. She deserved better than that. She deserved better than him.

Lilah pulled away, backing off until there was an arm length of space between them. Something hot and angry flared to life in her dull eyes, brightening them to the whiskey sparkle he loved.

"Well, why do you think I got separate rooms, you moron? If you weren't so busy being a prick you would have noticed that I wanted to invite you in."

Dean stared at her, his green eyes hollow. He still hadn't shaved and his face looked even darker in the shadows.

"I can't." Dean choked on the words, his eyes dropping to the ground. Beneath the hem of her pajama's her bare feet poked out, her toes unpainted and curling on the cold wooden planks.

Lilah flung her hand out and Dean forced himself not to flinch. She didn't come close to hitting him, but the hiss of irritation she expelled told him that she wanted too.

"Why? What's going on? What aren't you telling me?"

Dean scrubbed his hand across his eyes, trying to clear his mind. Sam thought he should be honest with Lilah, but he didn't think he could. He didn't want her looking at him like he was a nut job. He didn't want to hurt her.

"I'm not going to be around much longer and it wouldn't be fair to you. You deserve so much more than some jackass like me. I'm nothing, and I'm not going to hurt you because I'm selfish."

Lilah dropped her hands to her sides, her fingers curling in the baggy material hanging around her legs. Her face fluctuated between concern, outrage and curiosity.

Outrage won out first.

"You know, I'm not some delicate flower that you have to protect. I'm not breakable. Where did you get these antiquated ideals about women?" she spat and Dean hunched his shoulders against the memory of his earlier thoughts. "And I don't know where you get off saying that I deserve something better than you. Don't you think that should be my choice? My call to make? Most criminals would have dumped their brother off at the nearest ER and taken off, but you went to incredible lengths to get him the help he needed and keep him out of jail." She paused, thinking hard. "Not that I'm condoning kidnapping. Or stealing. Or crime in general."

"You and Sam keep hinting around at the fact that you aren't going to be here in a couple of months. One minute you're dying, the next you're just going away. I want you to be honest with me, what is going on here, Dean?"

She closed the distance between them, her eyes imploring. Something thick caught in his throat and he couldn't breathe around it. He backed away, spinning around so he could look out into the dirt parking lot that was turning into one huge mud puddle. He braced his hands on the wooden railing, feeling the rain splatter on his arms.

"A year ago, Sam died."

Dean heard Lilah's sharp intake of breath, and her warm hand settled between his shoulder blades. She rubbed his back, her hand sliding down his spine and back up again. He sucked in the comfort she offered him, using it as a salve for the wounds on his soul. His head dropped a little between his arms, and he remembered the night he held his brother's still-warm body in his arms. He would do anything never to feel that way again—to never have to experience the end of the world like that again.

"How? Did he die in surgery? How many minutes was he out before he was brought back?"

Dean shook his head. His shoulders drooped a little more and the rain drenched his hair, and dripped into his face. It was now or never. He had to tell her the truth. He had to face that look of confusion and complete horror that would filter over her perfect, beautiful features. Not the horror at his words, but at the realization that he was truly insane. Cassie had given him the look when he told her the truth about his profession and it was the same one Lilah was going to give him.

"He was stabbed in the back. He was dead for two days."

The small soothing motions of her hand stilled and she was silent behind him. The only thing that could be heard was the gunshot loud rain on the roof above them. Lightning flashed, and Dean closed his eyes against the white light. She remained silent and Dean sucked in a breath, looking for the courage to finish.

"I couldn't handle it. I couldn't live when my baby brother was dead. I've been taking care of him since I was four. I look out for him. Protect him. And I failed. I held him in my arms, in the rain and mud, and knew that I was worthless. Sammy has a real chance to be someone, to do something with his life. He deserved to be alive far more than I did."

Dean opened his eyes, and stared at the wet log of wood that he had his hands braced on. He concentrated hard on the darkening wet stains and the uneven grain, until his entire vision narrowed to just the wood between his hands.

"So I made a deal."

Thunder cracked, and behind him he felt Lilah flinch. The silence stretched on between them, her hand heavy and unmoving between his shoulder blades. His head sagged a bit more, and just when he thought the heaviness of the air between them would snap, Lilah shifted.

"Deal?"

Dean swallowed the lump that was lodged behind his Adam's apple and refocused his eyes.

"I summoned a demon. In return for my soul she brought Sam back to life. She gave me one year to live. In two months that deal is up and she'll come to collect."

The silence echoing between them was deafening. Panic crawled up Dean's throat and he hurried to make things clear for her. He didn't want there to be any misunderstandings on her part.

"I'm going to die. She's going to take my soul and I'm going to burn in Hell."

"I see."

Lilah's hand slid off his back, and Dean inhaled deeply.

"Look. I know that you think I'm a nut job. I'm asking a lot of you. You don't really have to believe what I'm saying. Just believe me when I say that I'll be dead in two months. That's why I can't be with you. It wouldn't be fair."

He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, knowing it was time to see the pitying look of disbelief on Lilah's face. He turned to face her slowly, his eyes firmly latched somewhere at her midsection. The fierce, hot crack of her palm against his cheek, caught him completely off guard, and staggered him back a step. He butted up against the rail, and he had to steady himself before he fell over into the mud.

His eyes snapped up to her face, taken aback at the sheer amount of rage that he saw there.

"How could you be so stupid, Dean Winchester? You made a deal? With a demon? Did you even stop to consider how your brother might think about that? No wonder he's so sad all the time. I thought it was from the pain, but now the tortured way he looks at you makes sense. You don't want to be selfish and sleep with me, but you were more than willing to do that to the man you would walk through fire for? You are selfish!"

She spun on her heel, leaving him stunned and confused in her wake. She made it to her door before he snapped out of it. He crossed the distance in three long strides, spinning her around to pin her against the clapboard wall.

"You believe me?"

The intensity in Dean's green eyes as he stared down at her could have drilled holes in cement. The moisture on his arms and hands, soaked through her light nightwear, spreading damp stains that clung to her chilled skin. He hiked her up so he could see her more clearly, feeling the rapid beat of her heart against his chest, and the way her fingers curled around his forearm to help support her weight.

"Of course. Why, are you lying?" Her eyes only shifted a fraction when she answered. It wasn't the shifty look of a liar, but of someone who had been given an incredible piece of information and didn't quite know how to process it. Perhaps, a small part of her didn't believe what he said, but a larger part believed in him, and that was enough for her to accept his word.

Dean staggered beneath the enormity of the trust he saw in her eyes. The only time he ever saw that look was from Sam. Never had he seen it from a stranger. Never from someone who wasn't _family_.

"No!" Dean spat out, still incredulous. He expected her to disavow him immediately. Her anger at his treatment of Sam and the result of his deal was so thoroughly unexpected. "How is it you believe me?"

Lilah's enraged features softened a fraction as she looked him straight in the eye. Her lips were parted, and Dean felt something primal roar to life in the center of his chest. It spread out in waves, encasing his entire body, right down to his toes.

"I'm a doctor," she replied matter-of-factly, making his head spin.

"Exactly," he replied, confused.

"Look, Dean. You don't see what I do every day and not believe in something greater. I've held people's lives in my hand, had their fragile hearts literally in the palm of my hand. I've seen everyone from atheists to men of the cloth die, and they have all had one thing in common."

"What's that?" Dean leaned closer, entranced by Lilah words. Her skin glowed softly, and her lids drooped until her eyes were almond shaped.

"Faith."

"Even the atheists?" Dean arched a brow in disbelief and Lilah smiled softly at him.

"Faith doesn't have to be in some omnipotent God looking down at us. It could be as simple as the faith in another person's love in you. Sam loves you. I have seen it, and therefore I have faith in it. Just as I have faith that you love Sam. But I also have faith that there is something beyond our human comprehension that loves us even more. And if I believe that, then I have to believe in the reverse. Good cannot exist with evil, and for the life of me, I can't understand why you would strike a deal with the side of evil."

Dean wrenched his eyes away from hers, unable to see the censure in her gaze. It wasn't the look he had been expecting when he told her his secret, but it was still as painful to behold. How could she possibly understand how desperate he had been to have Sam back at any cost? No matter what she or anyone else said, he didn't regret it. Not for an instant.

"The other team wasn't listening," he whispered, his gaze locked on the hollow of her throat. He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse, and he licked his lips hungrily. "How could I believe, when I've never even seen them? Demons, I've touched. God—angels—"he trailed off helplessly. Her hand smoothed down the side of his face, and he turned his mouth into her palm, placing a small kiss at the center.

"I've never seen an angel either, Dean Winchester, but I see you."

She lifted his chin so he could stare down into her upturned face. He felt a moment of vertigo as he fell hard and fast into the deep depths of her eyes. She guided his face towards hers, lifting her lips to slide them across his mouth. She smelled like lotion and tasted like mint toothpaste. He slid his tongue over her lower lip, begging for entrance with a feathery caress. Her lips parted easily, and he swept inside to explore every crevice of her mouth lazily, searching for her secrets and finding answers. She curled her body towards his and he gathered her in his arms, wrapping her up like his very own present.

He reached around, finding the key already in the lock and snapped it open. The door swung inward, but he made no move to enter. He kissed against the wall, until she was breathless, keeping his hands firmly around her waist instead of wandering like he wanted to.

She broke away, her kiss swollen lips parted as she panted up at him. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, distracted by the knowing smile curled on her lips. He wasn't about to invite himself inside without her express permission. If they were to go forward it would have to be her decision, not his.

"Come inside with me," she offered, and Dean held himself very still, not wanting to give away the nearly instantaneous urge to drag her into the room. He opened his mouth to ask her if she was sure, but she pressed her long fingers over his lips.

"I'm sure."

She wrapped her fist around the collar of his shirt, sliding along the wall to her room, dragging him with. He followed her easily, knowing that she could drag him to the ends of the earth and he would follow. They slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind them.

**A/N: **What occurs next, in the wee morning hours, is too racy for guidelines. If you would like to read the unpublished chapter drop me a note stating you are over the age of 18, include your email address and I will send it to you. If you aren't inclined towards sexual content, don't worry, the chapter is completely trashy and has no relevance to the story whatsoever, beyond some light emotional bonding. This story will pick back up the following morning without missing a beat.


	13. Chapter 13

Wayward Son

**Wayward Son**

**Warning: **Rated for gore and nudity.

Chapter Thirteen

Dean slept how he always had--flat on his belly with his fingers wrapped around the one thing that ensured his survival. Normally, it was his eighteen inch Bowie sharpened with practiced precision and ready to cut cleanly through any threat. In the early misty morning hours it was Lilah whom he held on tightly too. She was his savior in a way no physical weapon could ever be. She took his tarnished gutter soul and made it shine so brightly, it almost hurt Dean to contain it. She was tucked beneath him, warm and protected. Her head was cradled in the crook of his arm and his fingers were wrapped tightly in the tangled strands of her strawberry blonde hair.

The late night thunder storm had dissipated, leaving behind the heavy weight of moisture in the air. The damp humidity was thick, making their naked skin that was pressed together sticky and uncomfortable. Even so, Dean made no move to roll away and Lilah was content to nuzzle his neck. The cheap motel sheets were tangled around their legs, leaving Dean's muscular back bare along with the most predominant curve of his rock solid buttocks. Lilah had spent most of the night trailing her fingers along the puckered white lines slashed across his body, taking the time to kiss away forgotten hurts.

Most of his scars were on his back--wide slashes from claws or pock marks from teeth. Badges of honor. Marks gotten while throwing himself between danger and his family. Dean was proud of his scars. Every one represented a life --another day Sam breathed--another person saved.

The room was still, broken only by their deep restful breathing. The stagnant air rested heavy on Dean's back as he slept more deeply than he had in years. A whisper of cool air caressed the dip of his spine, barely raising goose bumps in its wake. Dean was moving before even fully coming awake. He clutched Lilah tightly to his chest, rolling them off the bed and onto the floor with a loud thump. Lilah screeched in barely conscious outrage as Dean showed her bodily under the bed and out of the way of harm. It was a tight fit. The mattress above was being depressed by a heavy weight that landed where they had lain only seconds before.

Dean shot to his feet, unarmed and gloriously naked. His green eyes widened as he stared down the golden gaze of a black panther. Sleek and muscular, it stood nearly head to head with Dean while on the bed. Judging by the dent it was putting in the mattress, it had to weigh more than three hundred pounds. Its razor-sharp claws were fully extended, shredding the sheet and mattress until yellow puffs of foam began to sprout between the toes of its massive paws. The panther's upper lip curled up in a nearly human sneer as it flashed its long ivory fangs at Dean.

"Dean!" Lilah gasped from beneath the bed.

Roughly awakened she was disoriented and confused. She wanted to slip out from beneath the bed, but the frantic way Dean had stowed her away made panic swell in the pit of her stomach.

At the sound of Lilah's high pitched voice the panther's ears flattened against its skull and it's yellow eyes narrowed. A long, threatening growl ricocheted through the room and Lilah's panic became nearly overwhelming. The primitive side of her brain recognized the sound only too well. It was usually the last sound you heard before becoming some monster's meal.

"Lilah, stay down!'' Dean ordered while slowly backing away from the bed. As he hoped, the beast's eyes tracked him, closely watching him for any sign of a threat. He was in the open before the panther sprang. Dean saw it coming. The beast telegraphed its next move, gathering its weight on its back haunches and tensing its quivering muscles before it flew through the air. Dean screamed at the top of his lungs, praying with all of his borrowed faith it would be enough.

"Sam!''

Three hundred pounds hit him square in the chest knocking him back into the wall. Dean was just barely able to stay upright, bracing his back against the thin wood paneling. The beast stood up on its hind legs, sinking its front claws deep into Dean's shoulders. He cried out, trying his best to ignore the ripping pain coursing down his arms. His chest ran red with blood, making his skin slick with more than the cold sweat which had broken out across his entire body at the sight of the large cat. He buried his fingers deep into the fur on either side of the panther's mouth, using all of his strength to keep its snapping teeth at bay.

Lilah scrambled out from beneath the bed, screaming shrilly at the sight of Dean pinned to the wall by a full grown panther. For a brief moment she stared, fascinated. In the dim morning light she could see the much blacker spots of the beast beneath its overall dark coat, and small silver hairs gleaned on its belly giving it some distinction. It was regal and deadly; a hunter in every sense of the word. Lilah broke out of her daze and scurried over to their haphazard pile of clothes. Though she had seen no evidence of a gun last night she knew Dean was always armed. She hurriedly sorted through the clothes, quickly sweeping her arm across her eyes when her vision became too blurry with tears to see.

Dean cried out and from the corner of her eye she saw him slump down the wall a little as the weight of the cat became too much. She redoubled her efforts to find a weapon, screaming wordlessly the entire time.

Suddenly, the front door burst open, coming off one hinge. Thick splinters of wood flew through the air, skewering Lilah in her naked thigh. She cried out, grasping her leg with one hand, but didn't cease her search.

''Dean! Down! '' Sam shouted. Lilah spun around to watch Dean heave away the beast with the last vestiges of his strength, sliding down the wall and to the left as he did so.

A shotgun blast reverberated through the room and a warm spray of blood splattered across Lilah's face and chest. The panther fell away with an awful screech, jarring her teeth as it echoed in the early morning. Without mercy, Sam stepped closer and unloaded another round in the already concave skull of the beast. Blood misted the air painting the wall and most of Sam's clothing.

Lilah stopped screaming. Her hands were raised as if somehow she could stop it all from happening, as if she could take back the last few minutes of her life. She watched, stunned as the emotionless mask on Sam's face never flickered. Not even when the panther skin stretched and bubbled, transforming from a cat to the body of a young girl. Most of her face was missing and her black hair hung in bloody strands from what was left of her skull. Dean was beside her and his eyes flickered when he caught sight of something on her back.

''You know her?'' Sam asked tonelessly.

''Yah,'' Dean replied, his gaze catching hers briefly before dropping to the wound in her thigh.

"You're hurt," he growled, before advancing on her.

''I am?" She couldn't seem to draw her eyes away from the rivers of blood that were streaming down Dean's chest from the wounds on his shoulders.

"Me? What about you?'' She tried to examine his injuries, but he pushed her back onto the bed, tending to her minor wound with brutal efficiency.

"Sam,'' Dean barked and Lilah jerked her eyes up to look at Sam. For the first time she noticed his disheveled appearance. It looked as though he had been yanked straight from bed. His long hair was mussed around his face and he wore a rumpled pair of boxers and a T-shirt. He was very studiously not looking in their direction which forcefully reminded Lilah of her very naked state. She quickly crossed her arms over her chest, but she realized the action was fruitless as soon as Sam snapped to attention at Dean's guttural command.

"On it!" he about-faced and raced from the room, reacting to an order only Dean and he understood. Lilah looked back at Dean, carefully watching his face as he plucked pieces of wood from her leg. His expression frightened her more than the entire terrifying event had. Eerily reminiscent of Sam's earlier mask, he was completely impassive. His mouth drawn in a hard line, his hollow cheeks covered with dark stubble. His eyes were shadowed by his brows and it bothered her that she couldn't tell what color they were. He reached behind her, grabbing a fistful of sheet and ripping it into strips.

"I'm so sorry, baby. I promise to take you to the hospital as soon as we can," Dean whispered to her soothingly.

Lilah was startled at the almost self-damning tone in Dean's voice. The wound was pretty insignificant to the ones that were staring her in the face. They would need to be cleaned more thoroughly, but she certainly didn't need to go to the hospital for them. Dean wrapped the strips of cloth around her leg, tying the ends in a neat knot.

"My turn,'' she demanded calmly, but Dean knocked her hands away as he stood up.

"Don't worry about it. Hurry up and get dressed. Don't forget to wash the blood off."

"But Dean!"

''Now, Lilah!" Dean bit out and Lilah audibly snapped her jaw shut.

Dean must have seen the hurt in her eyes, because his gaze darkened another shade. He glanced at his watch, his lips compressing even more.

''Average response time to gunfire is seven minutes. We have four left. I don't know the standards here in Mexico, but given the seedy location we may have a few minutes more. Do you want to explain to the Mexican policia why we have a dead woman with half her head blown off in our room?''

Lilah opened her mouth to argue, but Sam hurried back into the room, arranging the broken door so it was partially shut. He was fully dressed and had two duffels slung over his shoulders. Lilah's cheeks bloomed red as she dove for her clothes. Sam didn't look her way as he dug out a first aid kit from the duffel.

"A crowd is gathering,'' he reported.

Dean was washing the blood off his chest at the sink. As soon as he swiped himself dry, Sam taped on thick gauze bandages over the wounds. They bled through almost immediately.

"You need stitches." Lilah was tucking her shirt into her jeans while shoving her feet into a pair of flat-soled sandals at the same time.

"No time." The brothers answered simultaneously before dismissing her.

"We'll go out the back. She got in somehow," Dean motioned his head towards the dead body and Sam nodded.

Dean dressed while Lilah threw her belongings into a suitcase. Her brow was drawn down in irritation at Dean's brusque attitude, but he aptly ignored the daggers she kept shooting his way. Sirens wailed in the distance, just as they were finishing.

"I found it!'' Sam announced from the bathroom.

"Good!'' Dean shouted back before centering his gaze on Lilah.

'"Go with Sam."

"What about you?'' Lilah felt panic weasel its way back into her gut, and she realized it had never truly gone away. Her nerves were strung tight and it felt like all her senses were on overdrive. She knew it was the adrenaline but that didn't stop her from wanting to both kiss and beat Dean senseless for his behavior.

He was so brave it took her breath away. How had he known to roll them off the bed just seconds before the panther pounced? How was it possible for a single man to wrestle a three hundred pound cat? His heroism was like a drug. She wanted to drink it down and savor it. She wanted to crawl on top of him and let him fuck until he made her beg for mercy. She wanted to do all of that, right after she throttled him for his stupidity. How could he be so concerned with her minor scratch when he was in danger of bleeding to death from his wounds? Did he really care for himself so little? Or did he really just think he was invincible?

"Dean."

"Now, Lilah,'' Dean yelled, listening to the approaching sirens. Lilah straightened, shooting him a deadly glare before stomping off towards the bathroom, her belongings in tow. She stopped to glance over her shoulder before entering the bathroom. Dean was sprinkling a canister of salt over the body. From her angle she could see the woman's naked back and the large panther's face that was tattooed on it.

She disappeared into the bathroom, unable to watch anymore. Sam led her into a secret passage hidden behind the shower stall , which the woman had undoubtedly used to gain access to their room. It led to a series of dirt passages, most of which Lilah was sure went to other rooms.

"She must have been using this as her hunting grounds for a while now. Slipping into people's rooms to devour them." Sam commented, and Lilah shivered at his matter-of-fact tone.

Sam led her unerringly to the end of the passage, shoving at a steel door that opened into an empty warehouse next to the motel. As they exited, the loud blare of a fire alarm echoed down the hall. A few minutes later Dean hurried into the warehouse closing the door behind him.

"Phone.''

Sam tossed him a phone while holding his up to show he had it.

"Okay we'll meet up later today.''

"Be safe.'' Sam turned on his heel and strode out into the bright morning light.

''Wait, Sam."

Lilah stabbed a panicked look at Dean as he picked up her suitcase to carry it.

"The cops are going to be looking for three Americans travelling together. Hopefully, the fire will burn any record of our stay along with our passports, but it's safer if we split up and make our way separately out of the district. We'll meet up later with Sam to make travel plans."

''Oh, no! Our passports." Lilah turned back towards the motel, as if she could somehow retrieve their ID which they had been forced to leave at the front desk when they checked in. Dean grabbed her arm, swinging her around.

"Don't worry about it. I got it covered. Think I would travel with only one form of ID?"

Lilah allowed Dean to escort her outside, still somewhat shell-shocked. The sun had burned off the early morning haze and the day was turning out beautifully. The rain the night before washed everything clean, but the fresh scent was tainted by the acrid odor of smoke. Lilah looked behind her and saw black plumbs of smoke drifting up into the sky over the tin roof of the warehouse.

"Don't worry. Everyone made it out safety."

"How do you know?''

''Cause they were all in the parking lot waiting for the police to arrive."

''Oh."

"It's gonna be alright, Lilah."

"Is it?"

She examined Dean's features critically. She could see where he was starting to gray out around the edges, but he was walking sure-footedly and was giving no signs of weakness yet. The hard edge to his features disappeared as soon as he exited the warehouse. Almost as if once the job was done he could leave behind the cold-hearted man who cleared up a crime scene and burned a body with practiced ease.

The man she saw back in the hotel room made her afraid. If that man told her everything was going to be alright she wouldn't believe it. Not because she didn't think he could get the job done, but because he didn't seem to care one way or another about the outcome, or who was injured in the process.

Dean cocked his head towards her, his green eyes flashing in the sunlight. His full lips slowly curled up at the corners in a slow sexy smile that took all the weight off her heart she hadn't even known was there.

''Of course it will. I'm the man and the man is always right.'' Lilah threw back her head and laughed, rolling her eyes at his completely chauvinistic and wholly unbelievable remark.

However, the thing was, she believed him, and that made her entire world better.


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks to Starliteyes for looking this over.

Wayward Son

Chapter Fourteen

Lilah stole a sidelong glance at Dean from under the veil of her golden lashes. Last night she had told him she believed he really had sold his soul to a demon at a crossroads and was going straight to Hell. She couldn't really say right then if she believed him or not. She believed more that if she didn't accept what he said as true then she would lose him forever. She hadn't been ready for that reality. She hadn't been ready to be sent back to Manhattan and return to her life as Doctor Delilah Green. She wanted to stay a bit longer by Dean's side, crazy lunatic or not. She wanted to be Lilah for just a little bit longer.

In the harsh morning light she realized she might not be wrong after all. Her first instinct to believe in Dean, no matter how crazy, proved to be right. Because while it was easy to believe perhaps there were ghosts, monsters out to make you their breakfast was a completely different story. And after you accept monsters, believing in demons wasn't that much of a stretch. But still--Dean was going to Hell. He sold his soul to bring his little brother back to life. The concept of it was unreal, and it was hard for her belief not to waver.

Dean stumbled against her, and her hand shot out to steady him. His features had turned ashen, and his eyes were bright green. His blood loss was severe and they needed to find refuge so she could tend to his wounds. Dean pulled away from her, his lips pressing into a stubborn line. Lilah's light brown eyes narrowed, and she squared her shoulders ready to do battle.

"Hey, Americanos!"

They both turned towards a bright orange taxi cab which pulled up beside them. Lilah was surprised. The back street they were walking down was empty, with only the occasional barking dog. She must have been deep in her thoughts if she hadn't even heard the vehicle pull up beside them.

"Need a ride?"

A man peered up at them from the other side of the darkened interior. Lilah saw a flash of white teeth as he smiled, his arm gesturing to his back seat.

"As a matter of fact we do."

"No, Lilah."

Dean grabbed her arm as she reached for the door handle. She glanced back up at him, noting how gray his skin was and how he fought to stand steady. She knew immediately if she wanted to help Dean then she would need to take command of the situation.

"We need to get you inside, right now, Dean."

"I'm fine. We will keep walking."

Lilah studied the hard press of Dean's lips, and she knew it was his innate suspicious nature preventing him from accepting providence when it up and bit him in the ass. Too many years of seeing every kindness as a potential trap, he couldn't see the cab for what it was: _salvation._ Instead, all he saw was danger. Lilah took a deep breath and decided to roll the dice, relying that Dean's protective instinct would overrule his caution.

"Fine. Walk. I'll meet you at the hotel."

She pulled her arm away, opening up the door to the backseat of the cab. She threw her suitcase in first, pushing it over to make room, before sliding in.

"Lilah!" Dean growled, but she ignored him, instead making eye contact with the driver. He had soft, dove-gray eyes that immediately put her at ease.

"Take me to the best hotel you have. I'm sure my _husband_ can find his own way." She raised her voice so Dean could hear, sounding very much like an American wife who was fed up with her spouse.

Dean sneered before throwing his duffel in next to her. She hissed a little when it hit her, but it was only to hide her smile as he slid in next to her, slamming the car door.

"The Hilton okay with you, Senora?"

"Sounds excellent." Lilah settled back in the seat, covertly watching Dean from the corner of her eye. Although it was at least eighty degrees outside, he had slipped on his leather jacket so the stains of blood seeping through his shirt couldn't be seen. Beads of sweat dotted his brow and he was becoming paler by the moment.

It seemed like only a few moments passed before they were pulling up at the curb of a very tall building. Lilah pulled out some cash and handed it to the cabbie with a generous tip and a smile. He smiled back at her, winking knowingly.

"Where are the passports, honey? I'll check us in."

She turned her smile towards Dean who was glaring at a stocky man who had opened the door of the cab for them. Used to valet service, Lilah thought nothing of it, and shooed Dean so she could slide out. Dean dug into his bag, pulling out two dark blue booklets. He handed them to her wordlessly as they walked through the doors of the hotel into the grand marbled foyer.

The cold air-conditioning hit her like a wave, cooling her flushed body immediately. Even though it was still early morning the heat outside had already become oppressive. She sighed in relief as she hurried up to the checkout counter, leaving Dean to lean against a plush chair for support while never taking his watchful eyes off Lilah's back.

She walked up to a smiling girl with sleek black hair that was coiled at the base of her neck. Lilah handed her their passports, smiling back at her.

"I would like your best suite please with two separate bedrooms." Lilah allowed her smile to dim as she cast a scowl over her shoulder at her "husband." The girl followed her gaze, frowning when she saw Dean.

"Is your friend alright?" The girl asked in perfectly accented English.

"My husband ate something which didn't agree with him. I told him to stop gorging himself on everything that passed under his nose. But did he listen to me? No. And now he thinks I'm going to take care of him and ruin _my_ vacation. I don't think so. A suite, with two _separate_ rooms."

"Yes, of course," the girl agreed contritely, while hiding her amusement at the marital spat. Lilah smiled at her sharply, playing her role easily, while musing that she should have went into acting instead of medicine.

Lilah booked the room for a week at an ungodly amount. The girl's eyes widened when Lilah passed cash over the counter to her. Lilah sneered over her shoulder at Dean, and he shifted uncomfortably at her look.

"He thought he could cancel all my credit cards before we came here. Too bad I beat him to it, and got cash advanced on all of them."

"I see." The girl calmly took the money and passed to key cards back over the counter to Lilah. "Your room is at the top floor. Jorge will help you with your bags."

"Thank you." Lilah swiped up the cards and whirled around to hand her bag to the bellhop. Jorge tried to take Dean's bag, but all he got was a well-placed scowl. They piled into the elevator, waiting while the bellhop selected their floor.

"What were you telling that girl about me?"

Lilah's gaze sharpened on the bellhop's back before she glanced at Dean.

"Just the truth, honey. That you're an ass."

Dean's upper lip curled up over his white teeth, and Lilah felt a shiver run down her spine. The elevator doors dinged open and they followed the bellhop to their room. Once inside, she tipped him, thankful when they were finally left alone.

The suite was spacious, with a sunken living area furnished with plush furniture and a large flat panel T.V. The entire west wall was glass and looked out over the city in a romantic view. The two bedrooms were situated on either side of the living room, at opposite ends of the suite giving as much privacy as possible. There was a small kitchenette off the side with a small pre-stocked fridge. Dean cocked a brow at her, before getting on the phone with Sam to give him directions to the hotel, telling him to bypass the front desk. While he spoke, Lilah fished out the first aid kit from Dean's duffel. It was amazingly well-stocked, which made something sick twinge in the bottom of her stomach. How many times had Dean and Sam had to fix themselves up because some monster tried to eat them?

Dean eyed her while she carefully lined out her tools on the coffee table. He shrugged off his jacket as he hung up the phone, knowing it would be useless to argue with her. Besides it would be pointless. He needed someone to tend to his wounds. He didn't know why he was so against Lilah doing it for him. She was a doctor after all, but whenever she tended him it made him feel weak. Like he had fucked up somehow by allowing himself to be hurt. When he was hurt he wasn't one hundred percent and that left her vulnerable. He didn't like that thought at all.

Frowning, he lifted his arms to pull his shirt off, but he quickly dropped them, gasping for air. His arms felt leaden, and fire was streaking down his chest into his stomach. He dropped down onto the couch, suddenly unable to stand up any longer. Lilah brushed his hands away clucking gently under her breath as she cut his shirt away to examine his wounds. Dean allowed his head to fall back and he closed his eyes, trying to ground himself before he passed out from blood loss. He felt a slight prick in his arm, and he jerked his eyes open glaring at Lilah who was holding an empty syringe.

"What did you do?"

Lilah frowned at him, confused at his anger.

"What? It's morphine. You have to be in a lot of pain."

"I don't care. Don't ever do that! That shit knocks me on my ass every time. What if you need me and I'm passed out cold?" He snarled angrily, already feeling the effects of the drug as it swam through his system.

Lilah blinked at him in shock. She didn't know how to form a reply. Silently she counted to ten, allowing the irritation she felt at being told she was completely helpless to pass before commenting. She reminded herself that Dean was only worried about her safety, and allowing someone else to take control wasn't easy for him. Instead of snapping at him like instinct bade her too, she decided to take a more tactful route.

"Sam is going to be here any minute, Dean. And I hardly gave you a dose at all." It was a lie of course. The tears in his shoulders were angry and red, seeping with sluggish blood. It was going to take her a while to clean and stitch them. She had loaded him up on morphine, knowing that he was in a lot of pain and needing him to stay still while she worked.

Dean blinked hazily at her, and she knew that combination of the drug and blood loss was making him lose focus. Deciding he was medicated enough, she began to clean his wounds methodically. The silence was thick while she worked; only Dean's heavy, raspy breathing breaking the stillness.

"Do you ever regret something so deeply, you think the weight of it will eventually break you?"

His words were slurred, but Lilah could make them out clearly. She sat back on the coffee table, blood soaked cotton in one hand as she stared into Dean's cloudy green eyes. Another image flashed before her eyes: a little girl, sick and pale. So tiny as she was huddled in her mother's arms.

Lilah looked away dropping the used cotton into the waste can beside her. She picked up the suturing needle, threading it.

"I should have never taken Sam from Stanford. I should have left him there and searched for our father alone."

Lilah thought about her lonely apartment, hundreds of miles away from New York, in the impoverished town where Dean found her. As far away from home as she could get. The tiny bedroom with a single wide bed. Her barely used kitchen. The run down clinic where she worked; where she did her penitence.

"No person is ever meant to be completely alone, Dean," she muttered, still unable to meet his gaze.

"I am. I'm a curse. I shouldn't even be here with you. I'll just end up ruining you, like I've ruined everything else in my life."

"That's nonsense," Lilah replied sternly, leaning in to stitch a nasty wound closed. She was close enough to him that she could feel the heat of his body. Strands of her hair caught in the stubble on his jaw, tugging lightly at her scalp. She felt him turn his head, heard him inhale the scent of her hair. Warmth flooded her belly, and she leaned just a little closer.

"I should let you go. I should send you back home."

Panic flared to life inside Lilah's chest, and she jerked back to search his green eyes.

"I won't though. That's my sin. I can never let go of the people I love. I'll keep you even though it will probably destroy you."

Lilah's whiskey-colored eyes softened, and she brushed a soft palm over Dean's stubbly cheek.

"As far as sins go, that's not so bad. There's no crime in keeping the people you care about close." She couldn't say love. She wasn't ready for that. She wasn't ready to accept that anyone could love her.

"In my world it is a sin. You'll see. Already I've fucked your world up. I've introduced you to things you should have never worried about. You didn't need to know about monsters and demons. I should have never dragged you out of your world of the light and into the darkness."

His words were starting to slur together even more, his eyes unfocused. Lilah smiled softly and began stitching his other wounds.

"I already knew there were monsters in the world, Dean. You just showed me what sort of variety there was."

They were silent for a while longer, and Lilah stitched up all of Dean's wounds. She was applying some thick antibiotic gel when he spoke again.

"I'm going to Hell you know. In seventy-three days. I'm going to Hell and I won't be coming back."

Lilah's hands stilled. She stared hard at the ragged edges of the wound she had stitched together. The flesh was red and irritated, the black thread standing out obscenely.

"That's not even the worst part." Dean added softly.

Lilah leaned back, searching Dean's face for clues to what he was going to say next.

"How can that not be the worst part?"

"I would like to say the worst part would be leaving you behind. But I know you'll survive without me. You barely even know me. You have a whole slew of years in front of you to find a man who's not some shiftless loser like me."

"Dean—" Lilah opened her mouth, trying to find all the right words to express to him how wrong he was, but she didn't even know where to start. How could she tell him that she wasn't going to be okay? She wasn't okay when Dean found her, and now, the thought of him leaving her behind; it made her feel raw and broken inside.

Before she could speak, Dean reached out and cradled her face in the palms of his hands. The pad of his thumb pressed against her soft lower lip, pulling it down so she couldn't speak.

"Have you ever been responsible for destroying someone?"

A mother's sobbing face appeared in Lilah's mind. Her arms empty, her eyes dead.

Lilah shuddered and dropped her eyes to Dean's lap. He leaned forward, pressing their heads together.

"The worst thing," Dean whispered, and Lilah could feel his breath feather over her cheek, "is that Sam's going to follow me to Hell, and I can't stop him. He's going to follow me, and when he gets there he won't be Sam anymore. He'll be the very thing we hunt. He'll be evil incarnate."

The door handle to the room rattled and Lilah pulled away quickly. Dean fell back onto the couch, his eyes rolling up in surrender as he slipped into unconsciousness. The door swung open, and Sam stepped inside, tucking some sort of card-reading device in his pocket which he used to gain access to the room. He shut the door, his soft hazel eyes meeting Lilah's from across the room.

"Hey guys, how's it going?"


	15. Chapter 15

Wayward Son

Warning: This chapter is very confusing, and I apologize for that, but I couldn't seem to find a way around it. Thank you for your patience, and happy reading everyone!

Wayward Son

Chapter Fifteen

Sam lay flat on his back on the well-made bed, his arms tucked under his head. Lazily, he watched the fan blades above him whirl around with motorized precision, blowing cold recycled air into his face. Outside the Mexican sun was pulsing down on the city, making the air throb with heat and humidity; but inside it was stale and slightly antiseptic to the taste. Somewhere outside, in the sultry afternoon, Dean was strolling the street with Lilah, leaning close as they shared intimate secrets, laughing at silly jokes and shyly holding hands. They were together, and Sam was alone.

Sam tried not to be jealous, but they had been in Guadalajara for over a month now, and there was no sign of Madison to show Sam the final puzzle piece to saving Dean's soul. Time was slipping by and the year was drawing dangerously to a close. But, horribly, Sam had lost his brother before his time was due. Dean was right in front of him and Sam had to watch as he slowly slipped away into the arms of love. It was wrong. It was bad. And Sam was mad.

In a few short weeks, Dean was going to be gone. His soul was going to be pulled into hell and there was never going to be another shoddy Christmas or drunken New Year for them to share. There was precious little time left to them and Sam was angry that he didn't have his big brother's exclusive attention. That he had to share Dean's smiles with another person. That he had to watch as his brother focused his green eyes on a nearly complete stranger.

Sam knew he shouldn't feel the way he did. Dean and Lilah had done everything possible to include him, but Sam couldn't bear to be their third wheel. Couldn't bear to go out and watch the mockery of a life that Dean was never going to have. To see the possibilities of a future for Dean. A wife, kids. A home. Sam could see it all in Lilah's smile and he knew his brother could see it too. It broke something inside of Sam until there were only jagged little pieces ripping up his soul.

It broke him apart because he knew if it was possible, he would move Heaven and Earth to give Dean happiness. He would give everything that he was to spend a Christmas at Dean's home with Dean's family, basking in Dean's happiness. He would give his own soul and more, if he could just reach out and wipe Dean's slate clean and give him a second life.

The fan blades whirled and the cold air made him sleepy. His vision blurred at the edges and the steady whoomp thudded in his ears. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of sweet flowers and old, damp vegetation. The air was so thick he had to open his mouth to swallow it down as he raced over fallen logs and ducked between loose vines. He raced through the jungle beside his warrior brothers, knowing they had to make it to the sacred temple before the white-skinned demons desecrated it.

The wide stone steps appeared out of nothingness and stretched towards the open sky. They scrambled up the steps, their spears lifted over their heads, their mouths grim with battle. White-skinned demons met them on the steps, their sticks belching sulfur and their silver swords catching in the sunlight. Red rivers poured down the steps, and he slipped, falling to his knees. His brothers fell around him and the air turned to black sulfur, stinging his eyes. He dove past the upright animals with hair on their faces and metal banded around their chests into the heart of the temple, past the blood-spattered priests and the defiled maidens.

As he pushed into the most sacred of sacred rooms his dark eyes widened in horror. The king of the demons stood atop the holy golden dais and in his hands he held the crystal orb of the Gods. He caressed it gently, his eyes the color of the sky and the water glowing with inhuman greed. The demon king turned towards him, smiling with teeth of a jaguar, his head lifted in arrogance.

He rushed forward, determined to kill the demon king and retrieve the orb, but something hot and wicked punched through his chest. He looked down and saw his chest bloom red like the summer orchids along the river, and he felt coldness creep into his bones. He glanced up at the demon king who held a stick that roared loud and belched black sulfur. The fire spread in his chest and more red rivers streamed down his chest. He fell to his knees, watching hopelessly as the demon king stole the God's power and ever-living soul.

He fell backwards, swimming through and abyss until he fell out the other side. An empty space expanded in his head behind his eyes, and something snapped in the air around him. Time stretched and stirred and sucked him back to another place. His feet jarred against stone and his knees locked him upright as he leaned against his war spear. He straightened his spine, and lifted his chin proudly as he stood guard over the throne room of his goddess, watching dispassionately as the ritual of renewed life began.

A golden throne rose above the sacrificial table in the center of the room. A shaft of sunlight shone down from the roof, setting the dais on fire in hues of gold and red. An old woman perched regally in the seat, a headdress of gold and red plumes twined in her hair, her bronze skin stretched taunt over high cheekbones.

Below her a young woman stood proudly wearing a lapis skirt hemmed in crimson. Her dark brown hair was plaited behind her ears and the ends hung over her naked breasts. A tall man stepped forward and the young woman raised her chin a notch, meeting his hard gaze without fear. Her brown eyes were hooded, and for just a moment, Sam was Sam and he could see Madison inside the woman instead of a stranger.

The man held up a leather thong strung with white-bone skulls. Some of the jaws where hung open in wide obscene smiles, while others were clenched together, grinning tightly. The man wrapped the belt around the young woman's waist, tying it just above her skirt. Behind her an older man stood upright, his bare chest splashed with many battle scars. Beside him an older woman wept silently, but made no move to approach what was obviously their daughter.

Without preamble the young woman lifted herself on the table of sandstone, lying back with her arms prone at her sides. The priest approached her with a golden rod in his hands. Beside him, a young assistant held a crystal sphere almost reverently.

The priest held the rod aloft, catching it in the shaft of sunlight so it glowed. He chanted, his voice deep and lyrical. The woman on the throne closed her eyes, her chin tilted up, and her face slack with religious ecstasy. Sam shifted a fraction, glancing around to see his brothers standing guard, their spears planted firmly on the ground, ready to kill anyone who disturbed the most sacred of rituals. He tightened his grip on the smooth handle of his spear, tensing to defend the soon to be newborn goddess and her predecessor.

The priest twisted the golden rod, and Sam watched closely as the segments clicked into place like a combination lock, extending a thin hollow needle from within the tube. Unexpectedly, the chanting came to an abrupt halt and crushing silence descended into the room. He plunged the rod downwards, piercing the young girl through the chest just above the diaphragm but below her heart. The girl's screams echoing through the room, clawing at Sam's arms and bare back with invisible nails.

The assistant stepped forward, quickly handing the priest the crystal orb. The priest attached the orb to the other end of the rod, holding it delicately. Sam watched, stupefied, as the orb began to fill with gold and white smoke, swirling and dancing inside the orb until it glowed with its own inner light. The woman arched off the table, her heels beating against the stone, her mouth wrenched open in silent cries as the life was drained from her. She collapsed on the table, her brown eyes open and empty. The priest removed the orb, placing his thumb over the hole where the woman's soul had entered, and pulled the rod from her chest. The room was silent for a moment as they watched her body intently. Her chest rose as she drew a breath and the entire room sighed in relief.

The priest handed the assistant the rod and stepped quickly over to the young girls waiting parents. He removed something from one end of the orb and placed his mouth against the rounded stone. He took away his thumb which was blocking the hole, then gently blew against the crystal. The golden light was expelled from the orb and washed over the parents. The mother wept even louder, collapsing to the ground, while the father stood stiff and unyielding, his face a mask to keep his sorrow at bay. The light danced around them, twining about the mother remorsefully before escaping through the hole in the roof.

The priest returned to his place at the goddess's feet, bowing deeply in front of her before taking back the rod and starting another round of chanting. Stealthily he made his way up the golden steps to where she sat, reclined on the chair; her chin tilted back, her chest open and bare. The priest struck quickly, sinking the rod deep into her chest and capturing her soul within the orb. He returned to the empty body of the young woman filling her with the golden light of the goddess.

Sam watched as the goddess was reborn into the body of a young maiden. Watched as she rose from the sacrificial table and made her way to her throne. Before her old body was reverently removed, and taken to be burned, she removed the crown of feathers from her head. As the ritual was completed, the ring of warriors came forward to kneel at her feet, waiting expectedly as she chose among them to be her lover and the father to newborn gods.

As Sam knelt, he felt someone slam into his shoulder, then his other, spinning him around and around until he could no longer keep his eyes closed. Around him hundreds of people walked quickly in one direction or another, never noticing him, never seeing him, even when they bumped him. Sam scanned the crowd quickly looking for a familiar landmark to guide him or a face to lead him forward. In the sea of people he saw doe-brown eyes and long velvet hair and on instinct he turned quickly to stride after her.

Madison tossed a smile over her shoulder when he tried to catch up, but she was always a few feet ahead of him, just a few inches away from his reaching fingers. They passed a tall, spiraling building of glass and steel and Sam knew immediately it was the Guggenheim Museum in New York. Sam expected her to stop, but she pushed forward, slowing only when the press of people lessoned and she could be heard over the steady roar of traffic.

"Do you know who Coatlicue is?"

"Uh? Aztec goddess I think." Sam stumbled after her, trying to catch up to the woman who seemed to be flowing through the pedestrian traffic with ease. She wove in and out, never quite touching anyone else, but passing intangibly through them at the same time.

He had done some reading while closed away in his room. Aztec and Mayan mythology had never really been a concern for him, but it was the only real reading material he had been able to find during his stay in Mexico.

"Correct. Except she wasn't really a goddess."

Sam chased after her, his brow furrowing in concentration. If memory served him correctly Coatlicue was a fertility goddess.

"So I guess she didn't really have four hundred kids."

Madison tossed a quick smile over her shoulder at Sam and for the first time in weeks, his heart ceased aching.

"Actually she did have over four hundred children. She gave birth to most of the deities in fact."

"Urm. I thought you said she wasn't really a goddess."

"She wasn't. She was human. Curious isn't it?"

"No, it's impossible." Sam frowned at Madison's back, suddenly annoyed at her. How stupid did she think he was?

The rounded the corner and a weird sensation of spatial distortion scratched its fingers across Sam's skin. It bubbled around him, sucking him in until it felt like passing through syrup, pouring over his body and sliding down his throat, until he passed blissfully free on the other side. The busy main street melted away to dock side warehouses.

"Where are we now?"

"You saw what you needed."  
"I did?"

"You did. You'll remember. Now look around and see."

"See what?"

"You'll see."

"Goddamit Madison I don't have time for these games. Dean is going to Hell in a few short weeks and you took your sweet ass time showing up. So just tell it to me straight and stop fucking around."

His tone was curt, filled with all his frustration, fear and helplessness that had compounded over the last few weeks. He expected her to flinch away from him, to give him the same hurt, wet-eyed look Jess had whenever he snapped at her. Rare as it had been. Instead she just smiled gently at him, patience and understanding deep in her brown eyes.

"You remember the crystal orb from your vision?"

"What?" But Sam knew exactly what she was talking about. He remembered the holiest of the holy temples. The crystal orb of the Gods. The path to immortality.

"Coatlicue gave birth to four hundred children because she lived for over five centuries but not in the same body. Every few years a chosen maiden would be brought to her. It was the highest honor to be selected as the next vessel of the goddess. Coatlicue would remove the maiden's soul, and then place her own inside the body."

"Oh my god." Sam stared at Madison, stunned. All he could see was her profile as her eyes flickered over one warehouse to the next.

"She and her family lived that way for centuries until explorers stole the orb. It was transported across the sea to the Spanish court and the golden rod was lost in the same battle. Without the tools of immortality to exchange souls, the Gods fell into war and were eventually ruined. The Spaniards brought disease and the entire civilization was lost along with its secrets."

"What happened to the souls of the maidens?" Sam asked, horrified.

Madison glanced at him curiously before answering.

"Their spirits were set free so they might watch over their families for generations. That is why it is so important to honor your ancestors so their spirits don't rot with bitterness. However the siphoned soul could stay indefinitely inside the crystal orb." She pivoted on her foot, meeting Sam's gaze head on. "Or until it is ready to be placed back into the body it was taken from. Say, after that body has been reaped and the false soul has been taken."

Sam stared into Madison soft eyes, but he hardly saw her. His mind was racing and his heart beat thudded in his ears. Before they had even left for Mexico, Sam had done something very dangerous. Somehow, somewhere during their work they had picked up one pissed off spirit. It was rare but possible in some instances a poltergeist could attach itself to a person instead of a place. The ghost was after Dean and had stabbed a knife into Lilah's pillow in warning. Dean thought they had left the ghost behind, but in truth, Sam had quietly trapped it inside a chunk of raw quartz crystal the size of his fist. At the time he couldn't really say why he did it. He had just felt an underlying sense of need. And now he knew. He knew he had something to trade.

Sam sat stunned. For the first time in a year he had the beginnings of a plan, but he had very little time to execute it.

Madison smiled when she saw understanding dawn in Sam's eyes. She turned away, her shape already shimmering at the edges.

"Madison wait!" Sam reached out to snag her wrist, but his hand passed through electrified mist.

She looked back at him, and the ugly guilt reared its head from its sleeping place in his heart when he saw her sad face.

"I can't. Not this time. We have done too much. Come too far. It's almost over now and I can't risk getting caught."

"Caught by whom?"

She pointed upwards, and Sam's gaze was drawn to the star dappled sky.

"You can't break the rules and not expect someone's boxers to get in a bunch."

His eyes dropped down to hers, but she was already fading away. The last to go was her eyes, before darkness overtook her completely. In the distance a ship's horn sounded and he could hear the splashing of waves.

"Is that what you are doing, Madison? Breaking the rules?"

He didn't really expect and answer so when her disembodied voice floated out of nowhere he felt his skin prickle.

"For you, Sam. Always."

Sam jerked awake on the bed. The air was even colder on his sweat-soaked skin. He sat up abruptly, his large feet hitting the floor with a thud. He ran his hand through his long hair, grimacing when it came back wet. His heart pounded in his chest and he felt like he just ran five miles. He heard the front door to the suite close and soft muffled laughter.

He jumped to his feet, crossing the room in three strides. He jerked open the door, startling Lilah and putting Dean on the defensive. He met his brother's green eyes from across the distance, noting a happy gleam he had never seen before.

"I had a dream," he bit out tactlessly.

Sam watched as the gleam in his brother's eyes flickered and died. More guilt surged in his chest, but he kept his face impassive, only allowing his need to leak out around the edges. He swore that once he saved Dean's soul he would make it up to him. He would even stop being jealous of Lilah and how happy she made Dean.

In about twenty years or so.


	16. Chapter 16

Wayward Son

Chapter Sixteen

Lilah lay flat on her back on the mat, panting as Dean's heavy weight covered her. Their time together in Mexico had been a strain on her muscles in more than one way. In the short time she had grown closer to him than she ever thought possible, and yet at the same time she never felt so distant from someone.

At night he loved her thoroughly, laying her back on their king sized bed in their plush hotel room and did things to her that made her soft and wet and lush just thinking about them. In the afternoon's they laughed and played, strolling through the streets of Guadalajara, perusing the shops. They frolicked like teenagers on spring break and Lilah had never laughed so much.

But the mornings were for business. The alpha male inside Dean was driven to see her safe. To make sure that no harm ever came to her. He suffered tremendously at thoughts he may not be there when she needed him the most. He focused that anguish by teaching her how to protect herself. Teaching her how to defend herself against some other random psychopathic attacker, who might have less heroic intentions than Dean had. Time was short, so teaching her long term techniques was useless. Instead he focused on showing her how to put someone down hard and fast and keep them there while she ran for help. Learning how to break a man's elbow or shatter a kneecap was distasteful, but her medical training was actually an asset. She was familiar with human anatomy. She knew how muscles stretched, how far bones could be bent before breaking, and how to dislocate joints efficiently.

Dean also taught her things, she personally felt were useless. How to disarm an alarm. How to pick a multitude of locks. And most importantly he told her, without some bitterness, he showed her how to track someone using the GPS in their cell phone or in their car. Dean loved modern technology. Before On-Star finding someone had taken days of arduous tracking. Now all it took was a phone call and a fake id and he could get an ever so helpful customer service representative to point him in the right direction.

All this activity meant they were very busy. So busy in fact, they never spoke. Not about the truly important things. Not about the fact that in a few short weeks Dean would be gone, and Lilah's heart would be shattered into a thousand unrecoverable pieces. They made no comment on Sam's steady withdrawal from them or how much it hurt Dean. Instead they existed in silence. Silence filled with carefree laughter and erotic whispers. Silence that stretched between them until the distance was nearly impassable.

Dean settled naturally between her thighs, and his warm breath tickled her cheek. She could see sweat gathering at his temple, and she could feel her own wetness through her shirt. Their morning workout had been more intense than usually. Everything had been more intense since Sam's startling announcement last night that they needed to go to New York.

Dean had shut down instantly, and she felt that silence between them snap like a rubber band, coming back and slapping her hard across the heart. Without a word, Dean had nodded to his brother, and began to pack their belongings. It had been Sam who had asked to her make arrangements on her jet to fly them out this afternoon. It had been Sam to tell her how very sorry he was. She tried to ask questions, to find out why leaving immediately for New York was so important, but both brothers had stonewalled her, and once again she was left to feel like the third wheel.

She stared into Dean's deep green eyes, nearly losing herself in them. Words bubbled up in her throat, but she couldn't quite get them passed her lips. She wanted to ask him why he jumped so high when Sam said go. She wanted to ask about the raw, torn expression across Sam's face when he made his announcement. An expression that Dean had briefly mirrored before his shuttered mask slammed down over his features. She wanted to scream at him to tell her how he felt, to tell her about his fears, his plans for their brief future. But mostly she wanted to cry. Because leaving their penthouse haven, meant acknowledging that the end was near and very soon she was going to be alone, without the man she had fallen so deeply in love with.

With so many issues unspoken between them, what hurt her the most was that she couldn't voice her own suffering to him. She couldn't tell him about the loneliness that was spreading through her soul, or the fear that was freezing her heart. She couldn't even tell him that of all the places in the world they could go, New York was the very last place she wanted to be. Because New York was home, and with all their problems, facing her painful past was not something she wanted to add to the mix.

"Lilah." Her name was a whisper, but it jolted her hard. With a start she realized she was crying. Hot tears were sliding into her hair at her temples. She squeezed her eyes closed, blotting out the agony in Dean's jade green eyes. But doing that was like trying to blot out the sun. His face, his sorrowful expression was burned on the backs of her lids, searing into her mind.

"I'm sorry. I wish—"

A sob broke out of her throat, and she couldn't bear to hear anymore of his words. To hear his apology for something done before he even met her. For wishing for the same thing she was. A different life, a different place. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her. He settled his face against her neck, hugging her back tightly. She felt something hot and wet on her throat and another sob escaped her lips.

"Don't you dare say you're sorry or that you wished it could be different. If one little detail had been different then we would have never met and no matter what happens. No matter how much it hurts in the end, I will _never_ regret this. I will never regret _us_," she whispered fiercely into his short hair, clutching him as tightly as she could, afraid that if she let go he would be pulled away from her forever.

"I love you, Dean Winchester. You made me live again, and I will always love you for that."

Dean's strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her up so she fitted against him. His biceps bulged against her ribs uncomfortably as he squeezed her tight. She heard a strangled sob, and she let her tears come louder to drown it out, to give him freedom to vent his own sadness.

They lay like that for a few minutes, until sounds could be heard of other people making their way in to use the hotel gym. Dean pulled away from her, getting easily to his feet. The whites of his eyes were tinged red, but there was no other sign that he may have cried. In one strong fluid motion he pulled her up, making sure she was steady before turning to lead her out. As she followed his broad shoulders something inside her cracked just a little bit, and a cold bitter wind made its way into the crevices of her heart to freeze what was left of the warmth there.

As she glared holes at Dean, she couldn't help to be hurt at the fact that not now or even once during their carefree courtship through winding cobblestone streets, had he told her that he loved her back.

8888

Lilah watched Dean's cell phone rattle across the table for the umpteenth time. They were ensconced in a suite on the upper floors of the Windsor in New York, having just arrived a few short hours ago. Dean had been pissed when they had taken off from the airport in Mexico, realizing they were bypassing Kansas. When he had complained about his baby having to stay in long term parking even a second longer, Sam had snapped out they could come back later to pick it up.

The silence that had crashed down like a cannonball had been suffocating. Sam had been on edge since his announcement that they needed to go to New York and it was even more blatant when his mouth thinned mutinously at Dean's shuttered look at his thoughtless comment. The brother's were locked in a battle of wills that Lilah was struggling to understand. And frankly she didn't want to. Their relationship was so deep that they could communicate without words. She could only hope to have something like that in her life. She could only dream of having something like that with Dean. A dream that ended nightmare bloody with his empty soulless corpse lying at some backwater crossroad.

They had flown to New York without another word. Only the constant ringing of Dean's unanswered phone to keep the company. The first time it had rang, Lilah had recognized her solicitor's number and she had answered it expecting to engage in a short chat about her funds. Instead it was a plea from Roland to call her mother. Unsurprisingly, her Marilyn Greene had found out that her wayward daughter was returning to New York and she had issued an imperial order that Delilah present herself at her Manhattan penthouse for a cold, civil and bitter dressing down for her defection from her family and career.

Delilah had been running from her mother's voice for a year. Now that she was back in New York it sounded louder than ever. Even though miles of cement and steel, thousands of cars and millions of people separated them, Delilah could practically here her mother calling her home inside her mind.

After Roland's single call the number that appeared on the display was her mother's. Undoubtedly Roland had reported Delilah's refusal to acknowledge Marilyn, and now in a nearly unheard of maneuver, her mother was actually taking matters into her own hands.

"Maybe you should talk to her now. You know. While I'm still here," Dean told her softly, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

Lilah's eyes sharpened on Dean. He shifted nervously, his eyes dropping to his feet.

"Why?" She asked harshly, far more harshly than she intended.

"I don't know. So maybe, if you wanted someone to talk to after."

The silence returned to the room. Even the soft clicking of Sam's laptop ceased. It was not for the first time that Lilah realized that silence was not her friend. She had lived in silence in the last year since the incident and it had slowly devoured her. This silence was far worse, because at the tail end of it was a ticking clock that reminded them every second that it was T minus two weeks and then Dean would be gone forever.

Dean shoved his fingers into the pockets of his worn jeans, pulling them down until she could see a sliver of bronze skin. Their time in Mexico had darkened his skin to a healthy caramel color that made her salivate just to see it. She shifted, flattening her hand over her stomach to still the fluttering that was half nerves half desire. She knew Dean's offer made him uncomfortable. If there was anything she had learned about Dean the last few weeks was that he was very good at saying a lot of words without actually saying anything. He could fill the silence with useless chatter that deflected emotion. But when he did expose his heart, he did so with a certain vulnerability that made her soul ache.

"You would do that? Listen?"

Dean looked up at her hard and fast. His green eyes showing a razor thin sliver of hurt.

"Yes."

A little of the weight that had been pressing the air out of her lungs for the last year lessened. All this time. After listening to the pleas of her family to just forget about it and move on, the assurances from her colleagues that mistakes are made, and the platitudes from her therapist that the pain would eventually fade, hearing a genuine offer to actually listen to her made her want to weep.

"Would you come with me?"

Dean's withdrawal was swift and instantaneous. He even actually took a step back towards his brother who was sitting at a nearby desk doing some research. Behind him, she could see Sam watching them intently, like they were the newest soap opera on day time television.

"I don't think—"

Lilah was turning away from him before he could even finish. The pain in her chest renewed itself, bursting to life until it felt like it was going to burrow a hole through her heart. From the corner of her eyes she could see Dean's raised hands in pleading. She heard a rattle and a loud thump from behind her. She whirled around just in time to see Dean stagger as an office chair on wheels hit him from behind collapsing his knees. He caught himself before he fell, spinning around to glare at his little brother.

"Fuck! Sam! You fucking shit!"

Sam was seemingly casually leaning against the desk where he had been typing, but she could tell he was ready to leap up and meet his brother head on if he had too. His face was drawn into hard frown and his expressive eyes were unreadable to Lilah, but Dean must have seen something there that made him pause.

Lilah was heartily glad she didn't have siblings, especially brothers. The whole experience just seemed painful.

"I'm going to pound your face in," Dean growled, and Lilah shivered. Dean's reaction seemed to be blown out of proportion to her, but perhaps he was embarrassed at nearly being knocked off his feet or maybe he was just using it as an excuse to deflect his attention from her. Either way, the angry look on his face had her wondering if she should interfere or call a bellhop or something.

"I'm calling it. Red Lodge." Sam growled back, and Dean came to an immediate halt. "Now stop being a prick."

Lilah could see Dean's entire body vibrate with rage, until suddenly it leaked away and was replaced with something she couldn't quite name. If she didn't know better she would say it was fear.

"Next time it's a fair swap. A punch for a punch, little brother. No more throwing fucking chairs at me."

Sam didn't reply, just rolled his eyes a little and waved his long-fingered hand towards her. Dean hunched his shoulders, shoving his fingers in his pockets, before turning slowly to face her.

She waited with baited breath as he screwed up the courage to speak. She had never seen this Dean before. Nervous and uncertain. He had always been filled with a deep calm that she found reassuring. A sense of purpose and easy predatory grace that screamed self-confidence and an ability to take care of himself and those he cared for. His awkwardness made her feel awkward, and she had to cross her arms across her chest to make herself stand still.

"I just don't think--I mean, you're—Your mom, or a mother, I mean—she's not—"

Dean's inability to articulate his feelings was nothing new, but he being at a loss of words was mind blowing. Dean always had words. Words upon words and even more words. Dean was a talker. It was what he did. How he functioned in the world. This was a whole new revelation to a side of him she never expected to see.

"What are you trying to say, Dean?" She crossed the distance between them, soothing her hand down his arm.

"Delilah."

"Lilah," she corrected, startled when he pinned her to the spot with his green eyes.

"No that's what I'm trying to say. You're Delilah here. You are someone I shouldn't be talking to, much less be in the same room with. Your mom is gonna take one look at me and call the cops."

From behind them, Lilah heard a distressed growl and she knew Sam was just as hurt by Dean's words as she was, but she couldn't deny the kernel of truth in them. She had been born to a certain station in life. As a child she had the best over everything, including the best nanny to watch her while her parents flew to Milan or attending the latest charity ball. There was no question that she would attend an Ivy League school and become a doctor, a lawyer or some other high powered professional. She had certain advantages in life that Dean could never imagine, and those advantages set her apart. And in some eyes, in Dean's eyes, it set her above. It set her on a pedestal she didn't deserve, and she refused to seat herself upon it. She refused to allow her mother to force her there as well.

"No Dean. I'm Lilah. That's who I am now. And I refuse to let anyone else dictate my life to me. Either your or my mother. I can't continue to be someone I was never meant to be."

She dropped her hand, and moved away, staring hard at the champagne carpet.

"You're right. I have to go to my mother. I need to tell her that I'm not her perfect little girl anymore. That I've made mistakes and I need those mistakes to be acknowledged. I need her to let me go so I can have my own life."

When she was a few steps away, she looked up at him, her heart in her whiskey eyes, and her hands clenched into tiny fists.

"I can't do it alone, Dean. I need you to come with me. To stand beside me. You're the only person I have in this world."

She knew what she was saying, and how unfair it was. But it was the truth, and the truth was something she had to stop hiding from. When Dean was finally gone she would be alone. There would be no one to stand next to her. No one to stand as her shield between her and heart ache. Tears dripped down her cheeks and fell off the point of her chin. It was hard, but she forced herself not to look away. To stare him straight in the eye until he could see her very soul.

She heard the front door close with a soft click and she knew that Sam had disappeared from the room. But all that mattered to her was Dean. He was staring back at her, his hazel eyes turning jade green.

"Lilah—"

She shut her eyes. Shut him out. Shut out the remorse she saw inside him. She couldn't handle his rejection. His excuses. His truth. The truth that he couldn't be there for her. That he couldn't be the man she needed because he was going away. He was going to be torn away from her and there was nothing they could do about it.

Suddenly he was there, his heat wrapping around her until it crept into frozen heart. He gathered her up into his arms, and she could feel his warm breath feather on her cheek. She kept her eyes tightly closed, but she tilted her chin up, offering her full lips up to his.

"I would do anything for you. I will stand anywhere you want me to. Protect you from anything, supernatural or not that threatens you. I will wipe away your tears and kiss away your pain. I will do all these things and more for as long as I live," Dean's vow to her ended with a growl of conviction that vibrated down to her very core.

A sob swelled up her throat and escaped her lips, but before it could escape he covered her mouth with his, licking away her tears and swallowing her pain. He melded her body over his, holding her tightly, soaking up her agony so she was left feeling cleansed.

He sunk his fingers into her hair at her temple, angling her head back further. His thumb pressed at the corner of her mouth, opening her wider to receive him so he could kiss her deeper, devour all her pain until all that was left was pleasure, want and raw need.

Her eyes rolled back behind her lids and she knew that she would take everything he could give her. She would love Dean until the day he died and beyond. Because that was how love was supposed to be. Even when it broke your heart.


End file.
